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m iiBMif 
» rK 

mcBSiTT  cf  mnns 


POEMS 


BY 


HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


COMPLETE  IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOLUME  I. 


BOSTON: 

TIOKNOR  AND  FIELDS. 


M DCCC  LIX. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1856,  by 
Henry  W.  Longfellow, 

in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 


H.  0.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY. 


^ \1 

I ’ 

v,l 

CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  I. 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 
Prelude 

VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

Hymn  to  the  Night 

A Psalm  of  Life 

The  Reaper  and  the  Flowers 

The  Light  of  Stars 

Footsteps  of  Angels 

Flowers 

The  Beleaguered  City [ 

Midnight  Mass  for  the  Dying  Year 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

An  April  Day 

Autumn 

Woods  in  Winter 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Bethlehem. .’  ’ 

Sunrise  on  the  Hills 

The  Spirit  of  Poetry 

Burial  of  the  Minnisink  .*  ’ * 1 * 

translations. 

Coplas  de  Manrique 

The  Good  Shepherd 

To  Morrow .*.*.*.*.*.*!*.*.'. 

The  Native  Land *.*.*.*.*.!*.*.*.!. 

The  Image  of  God * * * 

The  Brook 

The  Celestial  Pilot .*!.*.*.*.'*' 

The  Terrestrial  Paradise '.  *.!  *..*!  *.  .*  * ! 

Beatrice ] . 

Spring *..*!.*.*.*.*.'.*.*.* 

The  Child  Asleep 

The  Grave !..!!.!. 

King  Christian 1 .*] ! 

The  Happiest  Land *.!  *.  *.! 

The  Wave 

The  Dead *. • 


800931 


PAor 

3 

9 

10 

11 

12 

13 

15 

17 

19 

23 

24 

25 

26 

28 

29 

31 

35 

51 

51 

52 

52 

53 

54 

55 

57 

59 

60 

60 

62 

63 

65 

66 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Bird  and  the  Ship 66 

Whither? 67 

Beware! 68 

Song  of  the  Bell 69 

The  Castle  by  the  Sea. 70 

The  Black  Knight 71 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land 73 

L’ Envoi 74 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Preface 77 

BALLADS. 

The  Skeleton  in  Armour 89 

The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 95 

The  Luck  of  Edenhall 98 

The  Elected  Knight 100 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 

The  Children  of  the  Lord’s  Supper 105 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Village  Blacksmith 127 

Endymion 128 

The  Two  Locks  of  Hair 130 

It  is  not  always  May 131 

The  Rainy  Day 132 

God’s-Acre 132 

To  the  River  Charles 133 

Blind  Bartimeus 134 

The  Goblet  of  Life 135 

Maidenhood 137 

Excelsior 139 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 

To  William  E.  Channing 143 

The  Slave’s  Dream .* 144 

The  Good  Part 145 

The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp 147 

The  Slave  singing  at  Midnight 148 

The  Witnesses 149 

The  Quadroon  Girl 150 

The  Warning 152 


CONTENT^. 


V 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

PAGfl 

THe  Spanish  Student 155 


THE  BELERY  OE  BRUGES  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Carillon 227 

The  Belfry  of  Bruges 233 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Gleam  of  Sunshine 239 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 241 

Nuremberg 243 

The  Norman  Baron 246 

Rain  in  Summer 248 

To  a Child 251 

The  Occultation  of  Orion 256 

The  Bridge 259 

To  the  Driving  Cloud 261 

SONGS. 

Seaweed 265 

The  Day  is  done 266 

Afternoon  in  February 268 

To  an  Old  Danish  Song-Book 269 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweide 271 

Drinking  Song 273 

The  Old  Clock  on  the  Stairs 274 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 277 

SONNETS. 

The  Evening  Star 281 

Autumn 281 

Dante 282 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Hemlock-Tree 285 

Annie  of  Tharaw 286 

The  Statue  over  the  Cathedral  Door 287 

The  Legend  of  the  Crossbill 288 

The  Sea  hath  its  Pearls 289 

Poetic  Aphorisms 290 

Curfew 295 


Y1 


CONTENTS. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 

PAGE 

Dedication 299 

BY  THE  SEASIDE. 

The  Building  of  the  Ship 303 

The  Evening  Star 314 

The  Secret  of  the  Sea 315 

Twilight 316 

Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert 317 

The  Lighthouse 318 

The  Fire  of  Drift-wood 320 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

Resignation 325 

The  Builders  . ..' 327 

Sand  of  the  Desert  in  an  Hour-glass 328 

Birds  of  Passage 330 

The  Open  Window 331 

King  Witlaf’s  Drinking-horn 332 

Gaspar  Becerra 333 

Pegasus  in  Pound 334 

Tegner’s  Drapa 336 

Sonnet  339 

The  Singers 339 

Suspiria 340 

Hymn 341 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Cast^l-Cuill6  345 

A Christmas  Carol 356 

Notes 861 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


•\ 


.1 


PRELUDE, 


Pleasant  it  was,  when  woods  were  green, 
And  winds  were  soft  and  low, 

To  lie  amid  some  sylvan  scene, 

Where,  the  long  drooping  boughs  between, 
Shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go ; 

Or  where  the  denser  grove  receives 
No  sunlight  from  above. 

But  the  dark  foliage  interweaves 
In  one  unbroken  roof  of  leaves, 

Underneath  whose  sloping  eaves 
The  shadows  hardly  move. 

Beneath  some  patriarchal  tree 
I lay  upon  the  ground ; 

His  hoary  arms  uplifted  he. 

And  all  the  broad  leaves  over  me 
Clapped  their  little  hands  in  glee. 

With  one  continuous  sound  ; — 

A slumberous  sound, — a sound  that  brings 
The  feelings  of  a dream, — 

As  of  innumerable  wings. 

As,  when  a bell  no  longer  swings, 

Faint  the  hollow  murmur  rings 
O’er  meadow,  lake,  and  stream. 

(3) 


4 


PRELUDE. 


And  dreams  of  that  which  cannot  die, 
Bright  visions,  came  to  me, 

As  lapped  in  thought  I used  to  lie. 

And  gaze  into  the  summer  sky, 

Where  the  sailing  clouds  went  by. 

Like  ships  upon  the  sea; 

Dreams  that  the  soul  of  youth  engage 
Ere  Fancy  has  been  quelled; 

Old  legends  of  the  monkish  page. 
Traditions  of  the  saint  and  sage, 

Tales  that  have  the  rime  of  age, 

And  chronicles  of  Eld. 

And,  loving  still  these  quaint  old  themes, 
Even  in  the  city’s  throng 
I feel  the  freshness  of  the  streams. 

That,  crossed  by  shades  and  sunny  gleams, 
Water  the  green  land  of  dreams. 

The  holy  land  of  song. 

Therefore,  at  Pentecost,  which  brings 
The  Spring,  clothed  like  a bride. 

When  nestling  buds  unfold  their  wings, 
And  bishop’s-caps  have  golden  rings. 
Musing  upon  many  things, 

I sought  the  woodlands  wide. 

The  green  trees  whispered  low  and  mild; 

It  was  a sound  of  joy ! 

They  were  my  playmates  when  a child, 
And  rocked  me  in  their  arms  so  wild ! 

Still  they  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 

As  if  I were  a boy  ; 

And  ever  whispered,  mild  and  low, 

“ Come,  be  a child  once  more ! ” 

And  waved  their  long  arms  to  and  fro. 


PUELUDK. 


5 


And  beckoned  solemnly  and  slow ; 

O,  1 could  not  choose  but  go 
Into  the  woodlands  hoar  ; 

Into  the  blithe  and  breathing  air, 

Into  the  solemn  wood, 

Solemn  and  silent  everywhere  ! 

Nature  with  folded  hands  seemed  there, 
Kneeling  at  her  evening  prayer  ! 

Like  one  in  prayer  I stood. 

Before  me  rose  an  avenue 
Of  tall  and  sombrous  pines  ; 

Abroad  their  fan-like  branches  grew. 
And,  where  the  sunshine  darted  through, 
Spread  a vapor  soft  and  blue. 

In  long  and  sloping  lines. 

And,  falling  on  my  weary  brain. 

Like  a fast-falling  shower. 

The  dreams  of  youth  came  back  again, 
Low  lisplngs  of  the  summer  rain. 
Dropping  on  the  ripened  grain, 

As  once  upon  the  flower. 

Visions  of  childhood  ! Stay,  O stay  ! 

Ye  were  so  sweet  and  wild  ! 

And  distant  voices  seemed  to  say, 

“ It  cannot  be  ! They  pass  away ! 

Other  themes  demand  thy  lay ; 

Thou  art  no  more  a child  ! 

“ The  land  of  Song  within  thee  lies, 
Watered  by  living  springs  ; 

The  lids  of  Fancy’s  sleepless  eyes 
Are  gates  unto  that  Paradise, 

Holy  thoughts,  like  stars,  arise. 

Its  clouds  are  angels’  wings. 


6 


PRELUDE. 


“ Learn,  that  henceforth  thy  song  shall  be, 
Not  mountains  capped  with  snow, 

Nor  forests  sounding  like  the  sea, 

Nor  rivers  flowing  ceaselessly, 

Where  the  woodlands  bend  to  see 
The  bending  heavens  below. 

There  is  a forest  where  the  din 
Of  iron  branches  sounds  ! 

A mighty  river  roars  between, 

And  whosoever  looks  therein, 

Sees  the  heavens  all  black  with  sin, — 

Sees  not  its  depths,  nor  bounds. 

“Athwart  the  swinging  branches  cast. 

Soft  rays  of  sunshine  pour ; 

Then  comes  the  fearful  wintry  blast ; 

Our  hopes,  like  withered  leaves,  fall  fast ; 
Pallid  lips  say,  ‘ It  is  past ! 

We  can  return  no  more  ! ’ 

“ Look,  then,  into  thine  heart,  and  write  I 
Yes,  into  Life’s  deep  stream ! 

All  forms  of  sorrow  and  delight. 

All  solemn  Voices  of  the  Night, 

That  can  soothe  thee,  or  affright, — • 

Be  these  henceforth  thy  theme.” 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


HoTvia,  TTOTVia  vi)^, 

virvodoTELpa  tcov  Tro/luTrovwv  jSporcjv, 

'Epe/?6i^£v  fzoXe  fioTie  KaTanrepog 

* XyafiefjLvovtov  em  dopov 

vno  yap  akyeuv^  vivo  re  ovp(popag 

6u)Lxope-&\  olxopE'&a. 

p:uripides. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

^kanaoLT]^  TpiTCkLoro^. 

I HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 
Sweep  through  her  marble  halls  ! 

I saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 
From  the  celestial  walls  ! 

I felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o’er  me  from  above ; 

The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I love. 

I heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 

That  fill  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 
Like  some  old  poet’s  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 
My  spirit  drank  repose  ; 

The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,— 
From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

O holy  Night ! from  thee  I learn  to  bear 
What  man  has  borne  before  ! 

Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 
And  they  complain  no  more. 


10 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Peace  ! Peace  ! Orestes-like  I breathe  this  pra}'er  1 
Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 

The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair. 
The  best-beloved  Night ! 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG  MAN  SAID  TO  THE 
PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

“ Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! ” 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real ! Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal; 

“ Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,” 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow. 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting. 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave. 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle. 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife ! 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 


11 


Trust  110  Future,  howe’er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 
Heart  within,  and  God  overhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time  ; 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another. 
Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main, 

A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing. 

With  a heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing. 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


THE  REAPER  AND  THE  FLOWERS. 

There  is  a Reaper,  whose  name  is  Death, 

And,  with  his  sickle  keen. 

He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a breath. 

And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

Shall  I have  nought  that  is  fair  ? ” saith  he  ; 

‘‘  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 

Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 
I will  give  them  all  back  again.” 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes. 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 

It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 
He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


**  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flowerets  gay. 
The  Reaper  said,  and  smiled  ; 

“ Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a child. 

‘‘  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light. 
Transplanted  by  my  care. 

And  saints,  upon  their  garments  white. 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear.” 

And  the  mother  gave,  in  tears  and  pain, 
The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 

She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 
In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

O,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath. 

The  Reaper  came  that  day ; 

’T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 
And  took  the  flowers  away. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon; 

And  sinking  silently. 

All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  V 
The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 

O no ! from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A hero’s  armour  gleams. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 


13 


And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I behold  afar, 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0 star  of  strength ! I see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckon est  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars; 

1 give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will. 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 

Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe’er  thou  art. 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm. 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart. 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

O fear  not  in  a world  like  this. 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long. 

Know  how  sublime  a thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered. 
To  a holy,  calm  delight; 


14 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall. 
Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Danee  upon  the  parlour  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 
Enter  at  the  open  door; 

The  beloved,  tbe  true-hearted. 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 

W eary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly. 

Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore. 
Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly. 

Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous, 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given. 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me. 

And  is  now  a saint  in  heaven. 

With  a slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine. 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes. 

Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended. 

Is  the  spirit’s  voiceless  prayer. 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended. 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 


FLOWERS. 


15 


O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 
All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 


FLOWERS. 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelleth  by  the  castled  Rhine, 

When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and  golden, 
Stars,  that  in  earth’s  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 

As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars,  which  they  beheld. 

Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 

But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation. 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  ; 

Making  evident  our  own  creation. 

In  these  stars  of  earth, — these  golden  flowers. 

And  the  Poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing. 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a part 

Of  the  self-same,  universal  beino. 

Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining. 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day. 

Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining. 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay  ; 


16 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues. 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 

Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than  seeming. 
Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers^ 

Which  the  Poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing. 

Some  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born ; 

Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  o’erflowing. 
Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn  ; 

Not  alone  in  Spring’s  armorial  bearing. 

And  in  Summer’s  green-emblazoned  field. 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn’s  wearing. 

In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Not  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys. 

On  the  mountain-top,  and  by^the  brink 

Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys. 

Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink  ; 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory. 

Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone. 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary. 

On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 

In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant. 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers. 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 

Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers ; 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons. 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 

How  ^in  they  are  to  human  things. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 


17 


And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection 
We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 


THE  BELEAGUERED  CITY. 

1 HAVE  read,  in  some  old  marvellous  ta!e, 
Some  legend  strange  and  vague. 

That  a midnight  host  of  spectres  pale 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague. 

Beside  the  Moldau’s  rushing  stream. 

With  the  wan  moon  overhead. 

There  stood,  as  in  an  awful  dream. 

The  army  of  the  dead. 

White  as  a sea-fog,  landward  bound. 

The  spectral  camp  was  seen. 

And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound. 

The  river  flowed  between. 

No  other  voice  nor  sound  was  there, 

No  drum,  nor  sentry’s  pace ; 

The  mistlike  banners  clasped  the  air, 

As  clouds  with  clouds  embrace. 

But,  when  the  old  cathedral  bell 
Proclaimed  the  morning  prayer. 

The  white  pavilions  rose  and  fell 
On  the  alarmed  air. 

Down  the  broad  valley  fast  and  far 
The  troubled  army  fled ; 

Up  rose  the  glorious  morning  star, 

The  ghastly  host  was  dead. 

VOL.  I.  2 


18 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGH  1'. 


I have  read,  in  the  marvellous  heart  of  man, 
That  strange  and  mystic  scroll, 

That  an  army  of  phantoms  vast  and  wan 
Beleaguer  the  human  soul. 

Encamped  beside  Life’s  rushing  stream, 

In  Fancy’s  misty  light, 

Gigantic  shapes  and  shadows  gleam 
Portentous  through  the  night. 

Upon  its  midnight  battle-ground 
The  spectral  camp  is  seen. 

And,  with  a sorrowful,  deep  sound, 

Flows  the  Biver  of  Life  between. 

No  other  voice,  nor  sound  is  there. 

In  the  army  of  the  grave ; 

No  other  challenge  breaks  the  air. 

But  the  rushing  of  Life’s  wave. 

And,  when  the  solemn  and  deep  church-bell 
Entreats  the  soul  to  pray. 

The  midnight  phantoms  feel  the  spell. 

The  shadows  sweep  away. 

Down  the  broad  Yale  of  Tears  afar 
The  spectral  camp  is  fled ; 

Faith  shineth  as  a morning  star, 

Our  ghastly  fears  are  dead. 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING  YEAH.  19 


MIDNIGHT  MASS  FOR  THE  DYING 
YEAR. 

Yes,  the  Year  is  growing  old, 

And  his  eye  is  pale  and  bleared ! 

Death,  with  frosty  hand  and  cold, 

Plucks  the  old  man  by  the  beard. 

Sorely, — sorely ! 

The  leaves  are  falling,  falling, 

Solemnly  and  slow ; 

Caw!  caw!  the  rooks  are  calling. 

It  is  a sound  of  woe, 

A sound  of  woe ! 

Through  woods  and  mountain  passes 
The  winds,  like  anthems,  roll ; 

They  are  chanting  solemn  masses. 

Singing ; “ Pray  for  this  poor  soul. 

Pray, — pray ! ” 

And  the  hooded  clouds,  like  friars. 

Tell  their  beads  in  drops  of  rain. 

And  patter  their  doleful  prayers ! — 

But  their  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 

All  in  vain ! 

There  ho  stands  in  the  foul  weather. 

The  foolish,  fond  Old  Year, 

Crowned  with  wild  flowers  and  with  heather, 
Like  weak,  despised  Lear, 

A king, — a king ! 

Then  comes  the  summer-like  day, 

Bids  the  old  man  rejoice  ! 

His  joy ! his  last ! O,  the  old  man  gray, 
Loveth  that  ever-soft  voice, 

Gentle  and  low. 


20 


VOICES  OF  THE  NIGHT. 


To  the  crimson  woods  he  saith, — 

To  the  voice  p^entle  and  low 

Of  the  soft  air,  like  a daughter’s  breath, — 
“ Pray  do  not  mock  me  so ! 

Do  not  laugh  at  me ! ” 

And  now  the  sweet  day  is  dead ; 

Cold  in  his  arms  it  lies; 

No  stain  from  its  breath  is  spread 
Over  the  glassy  skies. 

No  mist  or  stain  ! 

Then,  too,  the  Old  Year  dieth. 

And  the  forests  utter  a moan. 

Like  the  voice  of  one  who  crieth 
In  the  wilderness  alone, 

“ Vex  not  his  ghost  I ” 

Then  comes,  with  an  awful  roar, 
Gathering  and  sounding  on, 

The  storm-wind  from  Labrador, 

The  wind  Euroclydon, 

Tlie  storm-wind ! 

Howl ! howl ! and  from  the  forest 
Sweep  the  red  leaves  away ! 

Would,  the  sins  that  thou  abhorrest, 

O Soul ! could  thus  decay, 

And  be  swept  away  ! 

For  there  shall  come  a mightier  blast. 
There  shall  be  a darker  day ; 

And  the  stars,  from  heaven  down-cast, 
Like  red  leaves  be  swept  away  ! 

Kyrie,  eleyson  ! 

Christe,  eleyson ! 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


[These  poems  were  written  for  the  most  part  during  my  college 
life,  and  all  of  them  before  the  age  of  nineteen.  Some  have 
found  their  way  into  schools,  and  seem  to  be  successful. 
Others  lead  a vagabond  and  precarious  existence  in  the 
corners  of  newspapers ; or  have  changed  their  names  and  run 
away  to  seek  their  fortunes  beyond  the  sea.  I say.  with  the 
Bishop  of  Avranches,  on  a similar  occasion;  “I  cannot  be 
displeased  to  see  these  children  of  mine  which  I have  neg- 
lected^ and  almost  exposed,  brought  from  their  wanderings  in 
lanes  and  alleys,  and  safely  lodged,  in  order  to  go  forth  into 
the  world  together  in  a more  decorous  garb.”] 


AN  APRIL  DAY. 


When  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
is  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 
The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I love  the  season  well, 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms. 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 
The  coming-on  of  storms. 

From  the  earth’s  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives; 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter’s  cold. 
The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly- warbled  song 

Comes  from  the  pleasant  woods,  and  colored  wings 
Glance  quick  in  the  bright  sun,  that  moves  along 
The  forest  openings. 

When  the  bright  sunset  fills 
The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills. 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And,  when  the  eve  is  born. 

In  the  blue  lake  the  sky,  o’er-reaching  far. 

Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a star. 

(23) 


24 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


Inverted  in  the  tide, 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side. 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April ! — many  a thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 

Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought. 
Life’s  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


AUTUMN. 

With  what  a glory  comes  and  goes  the  year! 
The  buds  of  spring,  those  beautiful  harbingers 
Of  sunny  skies  and  cloudless  times,  enjoy 
Life’s  newness,  and  earth’s  garniture  spread  out. 
And  when  the  silver  habit  of  the  clouds 
Comes  down  upon  the  autumn  sun,  and  with 
A sober  gladness  the  old  year  takes  up 
His  bright  inheritance  of  golden  fruits, 

A pomp  and  pageant  fill  the  splendid  scene. 

There  is  a beautiful  spirit  breathing  now 
Its  mellow  richness  on  the  clustered  trees. 

And,  from  a beaker  full  of  richest  dyes. 

Pouring  new  glory  on  the  autumn  woods. 

And  dipping  in  warm  light  the  pillared  clouds. 
Morn  on  the  mountain,  like  a summer  bird. 

Lifts  up  her  purple  wing,  and  in  the  vales 
The  gentle  wind,  a sweet  and  passionate  wooer. 
Kisses  the  blushing  leaf,  and  stirs  up  life 
Within  the  solemn  woods  of  ash  deep-crimsoned, 
And  silver  beech,  and  maple  yellow-leaved. 
Where  autumn,  like  a faint  old  man,  sits  down 
By  the  wayside  a-weary.  Through  the  trees 
The  golden  robin  moves.  The  purple  finch, 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 


25 


That  on  wild  cherry  and  red  cedar  feeds, 

A winter  bird,  comes  with  its  plaintive  whistle, 
And  pecks  by  the  witch-hazel,  whilst  aloud 
From  cottage  roofs  the  warbling  blue-bird  sings. 
And  merrily,  with  oft-repeated  stroke. 

Sounds  from  the  threshing-floor  the  busy  flail. 

O what  a glory  doth  this  world  put  on 
For  him  who,  with  a fervent  heart,  goes  forth 
Under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks 
On  duties  well  performed,  and  days  well  spent ! 
For  him  the  wind,  ay,  and  the  yellow  leaves 
Shall  have  a voice,  and  give  him  eloquent  teachings. 
He  shall  so  hear  the  solemn  hymn,  that  Death 
Has  lifted  up  for  all,  that  he  shall  go 
To  his  long  resting-place  without  a tear. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

W HEN  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill. 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I tread  the  hill. 

That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O’er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods. 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play. 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak. 

The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung. 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke. 

The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river’s  gradual  tide, 


28 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


Shrilly  the  skater’s  iron  rings, 

And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas ! how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad. 

Pale,  desert  woods  ! within  your  crowd ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds!  my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song; 

I hear  it  in  the  opening  year, — 

I listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 


HYMN 

OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

AT  THE  CONSECRATION  OF  PULASKI’ S BANNER. 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 
Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray. 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 
Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung. 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  blood-red  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nun’s  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 
Sung  low  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS. 


27 


“ Take  thy  banner ! May  it  wave 
Proudly  o’er  the  good  and  brave ; 

AVhen  the  battle’s  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  sabbath  of  our  vale, 

When  the  clarion’s  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 

When  the  spear  in  conflict  shakes. 

And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

“Take  thy  banner!  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud’s  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it! — till  our  homes  are  free! 
Guard  it! — God  will  prosper  thee! 

In  the  dark  and  trying  hour. 

In  the  breaking  forth  of  power. 

In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men. 

His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then. 

“Take  thy  banner!  But,  when  night 
Closes  round  the  ghastly  fight. 

If  the  vanquished  warrior  bow, 

Spare  him  ! — By  our  holy  vow. 

By  our  prayers  and  many  tears. 

By  the  mercy  that  endears. 

Spare  him ! — he  our  love  hath  shared  ! 
Spare  him! — as  thou  wouldst  be  spared! 

“Take  thy  banner! — and  if  e’er 
Thou  shouldst  press  the  soldier’s  bier, 
And  the  muffled  drum  should  beat 
To  the  tread  of  mournful  feet. 

Then  this  crimson  flag  shall  be 
Martial  cloak  and  shroud  for  thee.” 

The  warrior  took  that  banner  proud. 

And  it  was  his  martial  cloak  and  shroud ! 


28 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  HILLS. 

I STOOD  upon  the  hills,  when  heaven’s  wide  arch 
Was  glorious  with  the  sun’s  returning  march, 

And  woods  were  brightened,  and  soft  gales 
Went  forth  to  kiss  the  sun-clad  vales. 

The  clouds  were  far  beneath  me*,: — bathed  in  light, 
They  gathered  mid-way  round  the  wooded  height. 
And,  in  their  fading-glory,  shone 
Like  hosts  in  battle  overthrown, 

As  many  a pinnacle,  with  shifting  glance, 

Through  the  gray  mist  thrust  up  its  shattered 
lance, 

And  rocking  on  the  cliff  was  left 
The  dark  pine  blasted,  bare,  and  cleft. 

The  veil  of  cloud  was  lifted,  and  below 
Glowed  the  rich  valley,  and  the  river’s  flow 
Was  darkened  by  the  forest’s  shade. 

Or  glistened  in  the  white  cascade; 

Where  upward,  in  the  mellow  blush  of  day. 

The  noisy  bittern  wheeled  his  spiral  way. 

I heard  the  distant  waters  dash, 

I saw  the  current  whirl  and  flash, — 

And  richly,  by  the  blue  lake’s  silver  beach. 

The  woods  were  bending  with  a silent  reach. 

Then  o’er  the  vale,  with  gentle  swell. 

The  music  of  the  village  bell 
Came  sweetly  to  the  echo-giving  hills; 

And  the  wild  horn,  whose  voice  the  woodland  fills, 
Was  ringing  to  the  merry  shout. 

That  faint  and  far  the  glen  sent  out. 

Where,  answering  to  the  sudden  shot,  thin  smoke, 
Through  thick-leaved  branches,  from  the  dingle 
broke. 

If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows,  that  thou  wouldst  forget. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 


29 


If  thou  wouldst  read  a lesson,  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! — No  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  POETRY. 

There  is  a quiet  spirit  in  these  woods. 

That  dwells  where’er  the  gentle  south  wind  blows  ; 
Where,  underneath  the  white-thorn,  in  the  glade, 
The  wild  flowers  bloom,  or,  kissing  the  soft  air. 

The  leaves  above  their  sunny  palms  outspread. 
With  what  a tender  and  impassioned  voice 
It  fills  the  nice  and  delicate  ear  of  thought. 

When  the  fast-ushering  star  of  morning  comes 
O’er-riding  the  gray  hills  with  golden  scarf ; 

Or  when  the  cowled  and  dusky-sandaled  Eve, 

In  mourning  weeds,  from  out  the  western  gate, 
Departs  with  silent  pace  ! That  spirit  moves 
In  the  green  valley,  where  the  silver  brook. 

From  its  full  laver,  pours  the  white  cascade  ; 

And,  babbling  low  amid  the  tangled  woods. 

Slips  down  through  moss-grown  stones  with  endless 
laughter. 

And  frequent,  on  the  everlasting  hills. 

Its  feet  go  forth,  when  it  doth  wrap  itself 
In  all  the  dark  embroidery  of  the  storm. 

And  shouts  the  stern,  strong  wind.  And  here,  amid 
The  silent  majesty  of  these  deep  woods. 

Its  presence  shall  uplift  thy  thoughts  from  earth. 
As  to  the  sunshine  and  the  pure,  bright  air 
Their  tops  the  green  trees  lift.  Hence  gifted  bards 
Have  ever  loved  the  calm  and  quiet  shades. 

For  them  there  was  an  eloquent  voice  in  all 
The  sylvan  pomp  of  woods,  the  golden  sun. 

The  flowers,  the  leaves,  the  river  on  its  way, 


30 


EARLIER  POEMS. 


Biue  skies,  and  silver  clouds,  and  gentle  winds, — 
The  swelling  upland,  where  the  sidelong  sun 
Aslant  the  wooded  slope,  at  evening,  goes, — 
Groves,  through  whose  broken  roof  the  sky  looks  in, 
Mountain,  and  shattered  cliff,  and  sunny  vale. 

The  distant  lake,  fountains, — and  mighty  trees, 

In  many  a lazy  syllable,  repeating 
Their  old  poetic  legends  to  the  wind. 

And  this  is  the  sweet  spirit,  that  doth  fill 
The  world ; and,  in  these  wayward  days  of  youth, 
My  busy  fancy  oft  embodies  it, 

As  a bright  image  of  the  light  and  beauty 
That  dwell  in  nature, — of  the  heavenly  forms 
We  worship  in  our  dreams,  and  the  soft  hues 
That  stain  the  wild  bird’s  wing,  and  flush  the  clouds 
When  the  sun  sets.  Within  her  eye 
The  heaven  of  April,  with  its  changing  light. 

And  when  it  wears  the  blue  of  May,  is  hung. 

And  on  her  lip  the  rich,  red  rose.  Her  hair 
Is  like  the  summer  tresses  of  the  trees. 

When  twilight  makes  them  brown,  and  on  her 
cheek 

Blushes  the  richness  of  an  autumn  sky. 

With  ever-shifting  beauty.  Then  her  breath. 

It  is  so  like  the  gentle  air  of  Spring, 

As,  from  the  morning’s  dewy  flowers,  it  comes 
Full  of  their  fragrance,  that  it  is  a joy 
To  have  it  round  us, — and  her  silver  voice 
Is  the  rich  music  of  a summer  bird. 

Heard  in  the  still  night,  with  its  passionate  cadence. 


BURIAL  OF  THF  AIINNLSINK. 


31 


BURIAL  OF  THE  MINNISINK. 

On  sunny  slope  and  beechen  swell, 

The  shadowed  light  of  evening  fell ; 

And,  where  the  maple’s  leaf  was  brown. 
With  soft  and  silent  lapse  came  down 
The  glory,  that  the  wood  receives. 

At  sunset,  in  its  brazen  leaves. 

Far  upward  in  the  mellow  light 
Rose  the  blue  hills.  One  cloud  of  white, 
Around  a far  uplifted  cone, 

In  the  warm  blush  of  evening  shone  ; 

An  image  of  the  silver  lakes. 

By  which  the  Indian’s  soul  awakes. 

But  soon  a funeral  hymn  was  heard 
Where  the  soft  breath  of  evening  stirred 
The  tall,  gray  forest ; and  a band 
Of  stern  in  heart,  and  strong  in  hand. 
Came  winding  down  beside  the  wave. 

To  lay  the  red  chief  in  his  grave. 

They  sang,  that  by  his  native  bowers 
He  stood,  in  the  last  moon  of  flowers, 
And  thirty  snows  had  not  yet  shed 
Their  glory  on  the  warrior’s  head ; 

But,  as  the  summer  fruit  decays. 

So  died  he  in  those  naked  days. 

A dark  cloak  of  the  roebuck’s  skin 
Covered  the  warrior,  and  within 
Its  heavy  folds  the  weapons,  made 
For  the  hard  toils  of  war,  were  laid; 

The  cuirass,  woven  of  plaited  reeds. 

And  the  broad  belt  of  shells  and  beads. 


EARLIER  ROKMS. 


Before,  a dark-haired  virgin  train 
Chanted  the  death  dirge  of  the  slain ; 
Behind,  the  long  procession  came 
Of  hoary  men  and  chiefs  of  fame, 

With  heavy  hearts,  and  eyes  of  grief. 
Leading  the  war-horse  of  their  chief 

Stripped  of  his  proud  and  martial  dress, 
Uncurbed,  unreined,  and  riderless. 

With  darting  eye,  and  nostril  spread, 

And  heavy  and  impatient  tread. 

He  came  ; and  oft  that  eye  so  proud 
Asked  for  his  rider  in  the  crowd. 

They  buried  the  dark  chief ; they  freed 
Beside  the  grave  his  battle  steed  ; 

And  swift  an  arrow  cleaved  its  way 
To  his  stern  heart ! One  piercing  neigh 
Arose, — and,  on  the  dead  man’s  plain, 
The  rider  grasps  his  steed  again. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


voi..  I. 


S 


[Don  Jorge  Manrique,  the  author  of  the  follomug  poem', 
flourished  in  the  last  half  of  the  fifteenth  century.  He  fol- 
lowed the  profession  of  arms,  and  died  on  the  field  of  battle. 
Mariana,  in  his  History  of  Spain,  makes  honorable  mention 
of  him,  as  being  present  at  the  siege  of  Deles ; and  speaks  of 
him  as  “ a youth  of  estimable  qualities,  who  in  this  war  gave 
brilliant  proofs  of  his  valor.  He  died  young;  and  was  thus 
cut  off  from  long  exercising  his  great  virtues,  and  exhibiting 
to  the  world  the  light  of  his  genius,  which  was  already  known 
to  fame.”  He  was  mortally  wounded  in  a skirmish  near 
Canavete,  in  the  year  1479. 

The  name  of  Rodrigo  Manrique,  the  father  of  the  poet, 
Coude  de  Paredes  and  Maestre  de  Santiago,  is  well  known  in 
Spanish  history  and  song.  He  died  in  1476;  according  to 
Mariana,  in  the  town  of  Deles;  hut,  according  to  the  poem 
of  his  son,  in  Ocana.  It  was  his  death  that  called  forth  the 
poem  upon  which  rests  the  literary  reputation  of  the  younger 
Manrique.  In  the  language  of  his  historian,  “ Don  Jorge 
Manrique,  in  an  elegant  Ode,  full  of  poetic  beauties,  rich  em- 
bellishments of  genius,  and  high  moral  reflections,  mourned 
the  death  of  his  father  as  with  a funeral  hymn.”  This 
praise  is  not  exaggerated.  The  poem  is  a model  in  its  kind. 
Its  conception  is  solemn  and  beautiful ; and,  in  accordance 
with  it,  the  style  moves  on — calm,  dignified,  and  majestic.] 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

O LET  the  soul  her  slumbers  break, 

Let  thought  be  quickened,  and  awake  ; 
Awake  to  see 

How  soon  this  life  is  past  and  gone, 

And  death  comes  softly  stealing  on, 
How  silently ! 

Swiftly  our  pleasures  glide  away. 

Our  hearts  recall  the  distant  day 
With  many  sighs ; 

The  moments  that  are  speeding  fast 
We  heed  not,  but  the  past, — the  past, — 
More  highly  prize. 

Onward  its  course  the  present  keeps. 
Onward  the  constant  current  sweeps, 
Till  life  is  done ; 

And,  did  we  judge  of  time  aright, 

T'he  past  and  future  in  their  flight 
Would  be  as  one. 

Let  no  one  fondly  dream  again. 

That  Hope  and  all  her  shadowy  train 
Will  not  decay ; 

Fleeting  as  were  the  dreams  of  old, 
Remembered  like  a tale  that’s  told, 
They  pass  away. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Our  lives  are  rivers,  gliding  free 
To  that  unfathomed,  boundless  sea, 

The  silent  grave ! 

Thither  all  earthly  pomp  and  boast 
Roll,  to  be  swallowed  up  and  lost 
In  one  dark  wave. 

Thither  the  mighty  torrents  stray, 

Thither  the  brook  pursues  its  way. 

And  tinkling  rill. 

There  all  are  equal.  Side  by  side 
The  poor  man  and  the  son  of  pride 
Lie  calm  and  still. 

I will  not  here  invoke  the  throng 
Of  orators  and  sons  of  song. 

The  deathless  few ; 

Fiction  entices  and  deceives. 

And,  sprinkled  o’er  her  fragrant  leaves. 

Lies  poisonous  dew. 

To  One  alone  my  thoughts  arise. 

The  Eternal  Truth, — the  Good  and  Wise, — 
To  Him  I cry. 

Who  shared  on  earth  our  common  lot. 

But  the  world  comprehended  not 
His  deity. 

This  world  is  but  the  rugged  road 
Which  leads  us  to  the  bright  abode 
Of  peace  above ; 

So  let  us  choose  that  narrow  way, 

Which  leads  no  traveller’s  foot  astray 
From  realms  of  love. 

Our  cradle  is  the  starting-place. 

In  hfe  we  run  the  onward  race. 

And  reach  the  goal ; 

When,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


37 


Death  leaves  to  its  eternal  rest 
The  weary  soul. 

Did  we  but  use  it  as  we  ought, 

This  world  would  school  each  wandering 
thought 

To  its  high  state. 

Faith  wings  the  soul  beyond  the  sky, 

Up  to  that  better  world  on  high, 

For  which  we  wait. 

Yes, — the  glad  messenger  of  love. 

To  guide  us  to  our  home  above. 

The  Saviour  came ; 

Born  amid  mortal  cares  and  fears. 

He  suffered  in  this  vale  of  tears 
A death  of  shame. 

Behold  of  what  delusive  worth 
The  bubbles  we  pursue  on  earth. 

The  shapes  we  chase, 

Amid  a world  of  treachery ! 

They  vanish  ere  death  shuts  the  eye. 

And  leave  no  trace. 

Time  steals  them  from  us, — chances  strange, 
Disastrous  accidents,  and  change. 

That  come  to  all; 

Even  in  the  most  exalted  state. 

Relentless  sweeps  the  stroke  of  fate ; 

The  strongest  fall. 

Tell  me, — the  charms  that  lovers  seek 
In  the  clear  eye  and  blushing  cheek. 

The  hues  that  play 

O’er  rosy  lip  and  brow  of  snow,  ^ 

When  hoary  age  approaches  slow, 

Ah,  where  are  they  ? 


38 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The  cunning  skill,  the  curious  arts, 

The  glorious  strength  that  youth  imparts 
In  life’s  first  stage ; 

These  shall  become  a heavy  weight. 

When  Time  swings  wide  his  outward  gate 
To  weary  age. 

The  noble  blood  of  Gothic  name. 

Heroes  emblazoned  high  to  fame, 

In  long  array ; 

How,  in  the  onward  course  of  time. 

The  landmarks  of  that  race  sublime 
Were  swept  away  ! 

Some,  the  degraded  slaves  of  lust. 
Prostrate  and  trampled  in  the  dust. 

Shall  rise  no  more  ; 

Others,  by  guilt  and  crime,  maintain 
The  scutcheon,  that,  without  a stain. 
Their  fathers  bore. 

Wealth  and  the  high  estate  of  pride. 

With  what  untimely  speed  they  glide, 
How  soon  depart ! 

Bid  not  the  shadowy  phantoms  stay, 

The  vassals  of  a mistress  they, 

Of  fickle  heart. 

These  gifts  in  Fortune’s  hands  are  found ; 
Her  swift  revolving  wheel  turns  round. 
And  they  are  gone  ! 

No  rest  the  inconstant  goddess  knows. 
But  changing,  and  without  repose. 

Still  hurries  on. 

E\^en  could  the  hand  of  avarice  save 
Its  gilded  baubles,  till  the  grave 
Reclaimed  its  prey. 

Let  none  on  such  poor  hopes  rely ; 


COPLAS  DE  MANPvIQUE. 


39 


Life,  like  an  empty  dream,  flits  by, 

And  where  are  they  ? 

Earthly  desires  and  sensual  lust 

Are  passions  springing  from  the  dust, — 

They  fade  and  die  ; 

But,  in  the  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

They  seal  the  immortal  spirit’s  doom 
Eternally ! 

The  pleasures  and  delights,  which  mask 
In  treacherous  smiles  life’s  serious  task, 
What  are  they,  all. 

But  the  fleet  coursers  of  the  chase. 

And  death  an  ambush  in  the  race, 
Wherein  we  fall  ? 

No  foe,  no  dangerous  pass,  we  heed, 
Brook  no  delay, — but  onward  speed 
With  loosened  rein ; 

And,  when  the  fatal  snare  is  near. 

We  strive  to  check  our  mad  career. 

But  strive  in  vain. 

Could  we  new  charms  to  age  impart, 
And  fashion  with  a cunning  art 
The  human  face. 

As  we  can  clothe  the  soul  with  light. 
And  make  the  glorious  spirit  bright 
With  heavenly  grace, — 

How  busily  each  passing  hour 
Should  we  exert  that  magic  power. 
What  ardor  show. 

To  deck  the  sensual  slave  of  sin. 

Yet  leave  the  freeborn  soul  within. 

In  weeds  of  woe ! 

Monarchs,  the  powerful  and  the  strong. 
Famous  in  history  and  in  song 


40 


TKANSLATIOXS. 


Of  olden  time, 

Saw,  by  the  stern  decrees  of  fate, 

Their  kingdoms  lost,  and  desolate 
Their  race  sublime. 

Who  is  the  champion  ? who  the  strong  ^ 
Pontiff  and  priest,  and  sceptred  throng? 
On  these  shall  fall 
As  heavily  the  hand  of  Death, 

As  when  it  stays  the  shepherd’s  breath 
Beside  his  stall. 

I speak  not  of  the  Trojan  name, 

Neither  its  glory  nor  its  shame 
Has  met  our  eyes ; 

Nor  of  Rome’s  great  and  glorious  dead, 
Though  we  have  heard  so  oft,  and  read, 
Their  histories. 

Little  avails  it  now  to  know 
Of  ages  passed  so  long  ago. 

Nor  how  they  rolled  ; 

Our  theme  shall  be  of  yesterday. 

Which  to  oblivion  sweeps  away, 

Like  days  of  old. 

Where  is  the  King,  Don  Juan  ? Where 
Each  royal  prince  and  noble  heir 
Of  Aragon  ? 

Where  are  the  courtly  gallantries  ? 

The  deeds  of  love  and  high  emprise, 

In  battle  done  ? 

Tourney  and  joust,  that  charmed  the  eye, 
And  scarf,  and  gorgeous  panoply. 

And  nodding  plume, — 

What  were  they  but  a pageant  scene  ? 
What  but  the  garlands,  gay  and  green. 
That  deck  the  tomb  ? 


C0PLA8  DE  MANRIQUE. 


41 


Where  are  the  high-born  dames,  and  where 
Their  gay  attire,  and  jewelled  hair, 

And  odors  sweet  ? 

Where  are  the  gentle  knights,  that  came 
To  kneel,  and  breathe  love’s  ardent  flame, 
Low  at  their  feet  ? 

Where  is  the  song  of  Troubadour  ? 

Where  are  the  lute  and  gay  tambour 
They  loved  of  yore  ? 

Where  is  the  mazy  dance  of  old. 

The  flowing  robes,  inwrought  with  gold, 
The  dancers  wore  ? 

And  he  who  next  the  sceptre  swayed, 
Henry,  whose  royal  court  displayed 
Such  power  and  pride ; 

O,  in  what  winning  smiles  arrayed. 

The  world  its  various  pleasures  laid 
His  throne  beside ! 

But  O ! how  false  and  full  of  guile 
That  world,  which  wore  so  soft  a smile 
But  to  betray ! 

She,  that  had  been  his  friend  before. 

Now  from  the  fated  monarch  tore 
Her  charms  away. 

The  countless  gifts, — the  stately  walls. 

The  royal  palaces,  and  halls 
All  filled  with  gold; 

Plate  with  armorial  bearings  wrought, 
Chambers  with  ample  treasures  fraught 
Of  wealth  untold ; 

The  noble  steeds,  and  harness  bright. 

And  gallant  lord,  and  stalwart  knight. 

In  rich  array, — 

Where  shall  we  seek  them  now  ? Alas ! 


42 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Like  the  bright  dewdrops  on  the  grass, 
They  passed  away. 

His  brother,  too,  whose  factious  zeal 
Usurped  the  sceptre  of  Castile, 

Unskilled  to  reign  ; • 

What  a gay,  brilliant  court  had  he, 
When  all  the  flower  of  chivalry 
Was  in  his  train  ! 

But  he  was  mortal ; and  the  breath. 

That  flamed  from  the  hot  forge  of  Death, 
Blasted  his  years ; 

Judgment  of  God ! that  flame  by  thee. 
When  raging  fierce  and  fearfully. 

Was  quenched  in  tears ! 

Spain’s  haughty  Constable, — the  true 
And  gallant  Master,  whom  we  knew 
Most  loved  of  all. 

Breathe  not  a whisper  of  his  pride, — 

He  on  the  gloomy  scaffold  died, 

Ignoble  fall ! 

The  countless  treasures  of  his  care. 

His  hamlets  green,  and  cities  fair. 

His  mighty  power, — 

What  were  they  all  but  grief  and  shame, 
Tears  and  a broken  heart,  when  came 
The  parting  hour  ? 

His  other  brothers,  proud  and  high. 
Masters,  who,  in  prosperity. 

Might  rival  kings ; 

Who  made  the  bravest  and  the  best 
The  bondsmen  of  their  high  behest. 

Their  underlings ; 

What  was  their  prosperous  estate,  . 
When  high  exalted  and  elate 


i:OPLA!S  DE  MANRIQUE. 


43 


With  power  and  pride  ? 

What,  but  a transient  gleam  of  light, 

A flame,  which,  glaring  at  its  height. 
Grew  dim  and  died  ? 

So  many  a duke  of  royal  name. 

Marquis  and  count  of  spotless  fame. 

And  baron  brave. 

That  might  the  sword  of  empire  wield. 
All  these,  O Death,  hast  thou  concealed 
In  the  dark  grave  ! 

Their  deeds  of  mercy  and  of  arms. 

In  peaceful  days,  or  war’s  alarms. 

When  thou  dost  show, 

O Death,  thy  stern  and  angry  face. 

One  stroke  of  thy  all-powerful  mace 
Can  overthrow. 

Unnumbered  hosts,  that  threaten  nigh. 
Pennon  and  standard  flaunting  high. 
And  flag  displayed ; 

High  battlements  intrenched  around. 
Bastion,  and  moated  wall,  and  mound. 
And  palisade. 

And  covered  trench,  secure  and  deep,— 
All. these  cannot  one. victim  keep, 

O Death,  from  thee. 

When  thou  dost  battle  in  thy  wrath. 

And  thy  strong  shafts  pursue  their  path 
Unerringly. 

O World  ! so  few  the  years  we  live. 
Would  that' the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed ! 

Alas ! thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast. 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 


44 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Our  days  are  covered  o’er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good, 

Within  this  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 

And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears, 

Or  dark  despair ; 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear, 

That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a groan, 
By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone, 

And  weary  hearts ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe. 

But  with  a lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs. 

And  he,  the  good  man’s  shield  and  shade, 
To  whom  all  hearts  their  homage  paid. 

As  Virtue’s  son, — 

Koderic  Manrique, — he  whose  name 
Is  written  on  the  scroll  of  Fame, 

Spain’s  champion ; 

His  signal  deeds  and  pro^sress  high 
Demand  no  pompous  eulogy, — 

Ye  saw  his  deeds  ! 

Why  should  their  praise  in  verse  be  sung? 
The  name,  that  dwells  on  every  tongue. 
No  minstrel  needs. 

To  friends  a friend ; — ^how  kind  to  all 
The  vassals  of  this  ancient  hall 
And  feudal  fief ! 

To  foes  how  stern  a foe  was  he  I 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


46 


And  to  the  valiant  and  the  free 
How  brave  a chief! 

What  prudence  with  the  old  and  wise ; 
What  grace  in  youthful  gayeties ; 

In  all  how  sage  ! 

Benignant  to  the  serf  and  slave, 

He  showed  the  base  and  falsely  brave 
A lion’s  rage. 

His  was  Octavian’s  prosperous  star, 
The  rush  of  Cassar’s  conquering  car 
At  battle’s  call ; 

His,  Scipio’s  virtue ; his,  the  skill 
And  the  indomitable  will 
Of  Hannibal. 

His  was  a Trajan’s  goodness, — his 
A Titus’  noble  charities 
And  righteous  laws ; 

The  arm  of  Hector,  and  the  might 
Of  Tully,  to  maintain  the  right 
In  truth’s  just  cause ; 

The  clemency  of  Antonine, 

Aurelius’  countenance  divine, 

Firm,  gentle,  still ; 

The  eloquence  of  Adrian, 

And  Theodosius’  love  to  man, 

And  generous  will ; 

In  tented  field  and  bloody  fray. 

An  Alexander’s  vigorous  sway 
And  stern  command ; 

The  faith  of  Constantine ; ay,  more, 
The  fervent  love  Camillus  bore 
His  native  land. 

He  left  no  well-filled  treasury. 

He  heaped  no  pile  of  riches  high, 


46 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Nor  massive  plate ; 

He  fought  the  Moors, — and,  in  their  fall, 
City  and  tower  and  castled  wall 
Were  his  estate. 

Upon  the  hard-fought  battle-ground, 
Brave  steeds  and  gallant  riders  found 
A common  grave ; 

And  there  the  warrior’s  hand  did  gain 
The  rents,  and  the  long  vassal  train. 

That  conquest  gave. 

And  if,  of  old,  his  halls  displayed 
The  honored  and  exalted  grade 
His  worth  had  gained. 

So,  in  the  dark,  disastrous  hour. 

Brothers  and  bondsmen  of  his  power 
His  hand  sustained. 

After  high  deeds,  not  left  untold. 

In  the  stern  warfare,  which  of  old 
’T  was  his  to  share. 

Such  noble  leagues  he  made,  that  more 
And  fairer  regions,  than  before. 

His  guerdon  were. 

These  are  the  records,  half  effaced. 
Which,  with  the  hand  of  youth,  he  traced 
On  history’s  page ; 

But  with  fresh  victories  he  drew 
Each  fading  character  anew 
In  his  old  age 

By  his  unrivalled  skill,  by  great 
And  veteran  service  to  the  state. 

By  worth  adored. 

He  stood,  in  his  high  dignity, 

The  proudest  knight  of  chivalry, 

Knight  of  the  Sword. 


COPLAS  BE  MANRIQUE. 


47 


He  found  his  cities  and  domains 
Beneath  a tyrant’s  galling  chains 
And  cruel  power ; 

But,  by  fierce  battle  and  blockade, 

Soon  his  own  banner  was  displayed 
From  every  tower. 

By  the  tried  valor  of  his  hand, 

His  monarch  and  his  native  land 
Were  nobly  served; — 

Let  Portugal  repeat  the  story. 

And  proud  Castile,  who  shared  the  glory 
His  arms  deserved. 

And  when  so  oft,  for  weal  or  woe. 

His  life  upon  the  fatal  throw 
Had  been  cast  down ; 

When  he  had  served,  with  patriot  zeal. 
Beneath  the  banner  of  Castile, 

His  sovereign’s  crown ; 

And  done  such  deeds  of  valor  strong. 
That  neither  history  nor  song 
Can  count  them  all ; 

Then,  on  Ocana’s  castled  rock. 

Death  at  his  portal  came  to  knock. 

With  sudden  call, — 

Saying,  “ Good  Cavalier,  prepare 
To  leave  this  world  of  toil  and  care 
With  joyful  mien  ; 

Let  thy  strong  heart  of  steel  this  day 
Put  on  its  armour  for  the  fray, — 

The  closing  scene. 

“ Since  thou  hast  been,  in  battle-strife, 

So  prodigal  of  health  and  life, 

For  earthly  fame. 

Let  virtue  nerve  thy  heart  again ; 


48 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Loud  on  the  last  stern  battle-plain 
They  call  thy  name. 

Think  not  the  struggle  that  draws  near 
Too  terrible  for  man, — nor  fear 
To  meet  the  foe  ; 

Nor  let  thy  noble  spirit  grieve, 

Its  life  of  glorious  fame  to  leave 
On  earth  below. 

“ A life  of  honor  and  of  worth 
Has  no  eternity  on  earth, — 

'T  is  but  a name  ; 

And  yet  its  glory  far  exceeds 

That  base  and  sensual  life,  which  leads 

To  want  and  shame. 

“ The  eternal  life,  beyond  the  sky. 

Wealth  cannot  purchase,  nor  the  high 
And  proud  estate ; 

The  soul  in  dalliance  laid, — the  spirit 
Corrupt  with  sin, — shall  not  inherit 
A joy  so  great. 

“ But  the  good  monk,  in  cloistered  cell. 

Shall  gain  it  by  his  book  and  bell. 

His  prayers  and  tears ; 

And  the  brave  knight,  whose  arm  endures 
Fierce  battle,  and  against  the  Moors 
His  standard  rears. 

And  thou,  brave  knight,  whose  hand  has  poured 
The  life-blood  of  the  Pagan  horde 
O’er  all  the  land,  • 

In  heaven  shalt  thou  receive,  at  length, 

The  guerdon  of  thine  earthly  strength 
And  dauntless  hand. 

“ Cheered  onward  by  this  promise  sure. 

Strong  in  the  faith  entire  and  pure 


COPLAS  DE  MANRIQUE. 


49 


Thou  dost  profess, 

Depart, — thy  hope  is  certainty, — 

The  third — the  better  life  on  high 
Shalt  thou  possess.” 

“ O Death,  no  more,  no  more  delay : 

My  spirit  longs  to  dee  away. 

And  be  at  rest ; 

The  will  of  Heaven  my  will  shall  be, — 

I bow  to  the  divine  decree. 

To  God’s  behest. 

“ My  soul  is  ready  to  depart. 

No  thought  rebels,  the  obedient  heart 
Breathes  forth  no  sigh ; 

The  wish  on  earth  to  linger  still 

Were  vain,  when ’t  is  God’s  sovereign  will 

That  we  shall  die. 

“ O thou,  that  for  our  sins  didst  take 
A human  form,  and  humbly  make 
Thy  home  on  earth ; 

Thou,  that  to  thy  divinity 
A human  nature  didst  ally 
By  mortal  birth, 

“ And  in  that  form  didst  suffer  here 
Torment,  and  agony,  and  fear. 

So  patiently ; 

By  thy  redeeming  grace  alone. 

And  not  for  merits  of  my  own, 

O,  pardon  me  ! ” 

As  thus  the  dying  warrior  prayed. 
Without  one  gathering  mist  or  shade 
Upon  his  mind ; 

Encircled  by  his  family. 

Watched  by  affection’s  gentle  eye 
So  soft  and  kind  ; 

VOL.  I.  4 


50 


TRANSLATIOiSS. 


His  soul  to  Him,  who  gave  it,  rose ; 
God  lead  it  to  its  long  repose, 

Its  glorious  rest ! 

And,  though  the  warrior^s  sun  has  set, 
Its  light  shall  linger  round  us  yet. 
Bright,  radiant,  blest  * 


* This  poem  of  Manrique  is  a great  favorite  in  Spain.  No  less 
than  four  poetic  Glosses,  or  running  commentaries,  upon  it  have 
been  published,  no  one  of  which,  however,  possesses  great  poetic 
merit.  That  of  the  Carthusian  monk,  Rodrigo  de  Valdepehas  is 
the  best.  It  is  known  as  the  Glosa  del  Cartujo.  There  is  also  a 
prose  Commentary  by  Luis  de  Aranda. 

The  following  stanzas  of  the  poem  were  found  in  the  author’s 
pocket,  after  his  death  on  the  field  of  battle. 

“ 0 World!  so  few  the  years  we  live. 

Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed! 

Alas ! thy  sorrows  fall  so  fast. 

Our  happiest  hour  is  when  at  last 
The  soul  is  freed. 

“ Our  days  are  covered  o’er  with  grief, 

And  sorrows  neither  few  nor  brief 
Veil  all  in  gloom ; 

Left  desolate  of  real  good. 

Within  ihis  cheerless  solitude 
No  pleasures  bloom. 

“ Thy  pilgrimage  begins  in  tears, 

And  ends  in  bitter  doubts  and  fears. 

Or  dark  despair; 

Midway  so  many  toils  appear. 

That  he  who  lingers  longest  here 
Knows  most  of  care. 

“ Thy  goods  are  bought  with  many  a groan. 

By  the  hot  sweat  of  toil  alone. 

And  weary  hearts ; 

Fleet-footed  is  the  approach  of  woe, 

But  with  a lingering  step  and  slow 
Its  form  departs.” 


TO-MORROW. 


51 


THE  GOOD  SHEPHEKD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Shepherd  ! that  with  thine  amorous,  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  which  encompassed  me, — 
That  mad’st  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree. 

On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so 
long ! 

Lead  me  to  mercy’s  ever-flowing  fountains  ; 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  shalt  be 
I will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  see 
Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd ! — thou  who  for  thy  flock  art 
dying, 

O,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thou 
Rejoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner’s  vow. 

0,  wait ! — to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, — 

Wait  for  me  ! — Yet  why  ask  it,  when  I see. 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  ’rt  waiting  still 
for  me. 


TO-MORROW. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LOPE  DE  VEGA. 

Lord,  what  am  I,  that,  with  unceasing  care, 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews,  before  my  gate, 

And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 

0 strange  delusion  ! — that  I <jid  not  greet 

Thy  blest  approach,  and  O,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 

If  my  ingratitude’s  unkindly  frost 

Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet. 

How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 


52 


TRANSLATIONS. 


“ Soul,  from  thy  casement  look,  and  thou  shalt  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee ! ” 

And,  O ! how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 

“ To-morrow  we  will  open,”  I replied. 

And  when  the  morrow  came  I answered  still,  “ To- 
morrow.” 


THE  NATIVE  LAND. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

Clear  fount  of  light ! my  native  land  on  high, 
Bright  with  a glory  that  shall  never  fade  ! 

Mansion  of  truth ! without  a veil  or  shade. 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit’s  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 
Gasping  no  longer  for  life’s  feeble  breath  ; 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 
With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not,  death. 
Beloved  country  ! banished  from  thy  shore, 

A stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay. 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee  ! 
Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I adore 
Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way. 

That,  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling 
be. 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  FRANCISCO  DE  ALDANA. 

O Lord  ! that  seest,  from  yon  starry  height. 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past. 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright  I 


THE  BROOK. 


6S 


Eternal  Sun  ! the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given, 
To  cheer  life’s  flowery  April,  fast  decays  ; 

Yet,  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 

Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Heaven. 
Celestial  King  ! O let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fair 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high. 

As  the  reflected  image  in  a glass 

Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 

And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer’s  eye. 


THE  BROOK. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH. 

Laugh  of  the  mountain  ! — lyre  of  bird  and  tree  ! 
Pomp  of  the  meadow  ! mirror  of  the  morn  ! 

The  soul  of  April,  unto  whom  are  born 
The  rose  and  jessamine,  leaps  wild  in  thee ! 
Although,  where’er  thy  devious  current  strays. 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 

To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd’s 
gaze. 

How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 
As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth,  round  pebbles  count ! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  cur- 
rent ! 

O sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by ! 

Thou  shun’st  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid 
fount ! 


54 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  CELESTIAL  PILOT. 

FROM  DANTE.  PUKGATORIO  II. 

And  now,  behold ! as  at  the  approach  of  morning, 
Through  the  gross  vapors,  Mars  grows  fiery  red 
Down  in  the  west  upon  the  ocean  floor. 

Appeared  to  me, — may  I again  behold  it ! — 

A light  along  the  sea,  so  swiftly  coming. 

Its  motion  by  no  flight  of  wing  is  equalled. 

And  when  therefrom  I had  withdrawn  a little 
Mine  eyes,  that  I might  question  my  conductor. 
Again  I saw  it  brighter  grown  and  larger. 

Thereafter,  on  all  sides  of  it,  appeared 
I knew  not  what  of  white,  and  underneath. 

Little  by  little,  there  came  forth  another. 

My  master  yet  had  uttered  not  a word. 

While  the  first  brightness  into  wings  unfolded  ; 
But,  when  he  clearly  recognized  the  pilot. 

He  cried  aloud ; “ Quick,  quick,  and  bow  the  knee 
Behold  the  Angel  of  God ! fold  up  thy  hands ! 
Henceforward  shalt  thou  see  such  officers ! 

“ See,  how  he  scorns  all  human  arguments. 

So  that  no  oar  he  wants,  nor  other  sail 
Than  his  own  wings,  between  so  distant  shores ! 

“ See,  how  he  holds  them,  pointed  straight  to 
heaven. 

Fanning  the  air  with  the  eternal  pinions. 

That  do  not  moult  themselves  like  mortal  hair ! ” 


THE  TERRESTRIAL  PARADISE. 


55 


And  then,  as  nearer  and  more  near  us  came 
The  Bird  of  Heaven,  more  glorious  he  appeared, 
So  that  the  eye  could  not  sustain  his  presence. 

But  down  I cast  it ; and  he  came  to  shore 
With  a small  vessel,  gliding  swift  and  light. 

So  that  the  water  swallowed  nought  thereof. 

Upon  the  stern  stood  the  Celestial  Pilot ! 
Beatitude  seemed  written  in  his  face  ! 

And  more  than  a hundred  spirits  sat  within. 

“ In  exitu  Israel  out  of  Egypt ! ” 

Thus  sang  they  all  together  in  one  voice. 

With  whatso  in  that  Psalm  is  after  written. 

Then  made  he  sign  of  holy  rood  upon  them, 
Whereat  all  cast  themselves  upon  the  shore, 

And  he  departed  swiftly  as  he  came. 


THE  TEKRESTEIAL  PARADISE. 

FKOM  DANTE.  PUKGATORIO  XXVIII. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green. 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I left  the  bank. 

Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly. 

Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A gently-breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead, 

No  heavier  blow,  than  of  a pleasant  breeze, 


56 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 

Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  towards  that  side 

Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes, 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells, 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi, 
When  ^olus  unlooses  the  Sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 

Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 

Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I had  entered. 

And  lo ! my  farther  course  cut  off  a river. 

Which,  towards  the  left  hand,  with  its  little  waves, 
Bent  down  the  grass,  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are. 

Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mix- 
ture. 

Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  conceal. 

Although  it  moves  on  with  a brown,  brown  cur- 
rent. 

Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  the  sun  lets  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 


BEATRICE. 


57 


BEATRICE. 

FROM  DANTE.  PURGATORIO  XXX.,  XXXI. 

Even  as  the  Blessed,  in  the  new  covenant, 

Shall  rise  up  quickened,  each  one  from  his  grave, 
Wearing  again  the  garments  of  the  flesh. 

So,  upon  that  celestial  chariot, 

A hundred  rose  ad  vocem  tanti  senis^ 

Ministers  and  messengers  of  life  eternal. 

They  all  were  saying ; “ Benedictus  qui  venis** 
And  scattering  flowers  above  and  round  about, 

“ Manibus  o date  lilia  plenis** 

I once  beheld,  at  the  approach  of  day. 

The  orient  sky  all  stained  with  roseate  hues. 

And  the  other  heaven  with  light  serene  adorned, 

And  the  sun’s  face  uprising,  overshadowed. 

So  that,  by  temperate  influence  of  vapors. 

The  eye  sustained  his  aspect  for  long  while ; 

Thus  in  the  bosom  of  a cloud  of  flowers. 

Which  from  those  hands  angelic  were  thrown  up. 
And  down  descended  inside  and  without. 

With  crown  of  olive  o’er  a snow-white  veil, 
Appeared  a lady,  under  a green  mantle. 

Vested  in  colors  of  the  living  flame. 

* ^ ^ 

Even  as  the  snow,  among  the  living  rafters 
Upon  the  back  of  Italy,  congeals. 

Blown  on  and  beaten  by  Sclavonian  winds, 


58 


TRANSLATIONS. 


And  then,  dissolving,  filters  through  itself, 
Whene’er  the  land,  that  loses  shadow,  breathes, 
Like  as  a taper  melts  before  a fire. 

Even  such  I was,  without  a sigh  or  tear. 

Before  the  song  of  those  who  chime  forever 
After  the  chiming  of  the  eternal  spheres  ; 

But,  when  I heard  in  those  sweet  melodies 
Compassion  for  me,  mo¥e  than  had  they  said, 

“ O wherefore,  lady,  dost  thou  thus  consume  himV’* 

The  ice,  that  was  about  my  heart  congealed. 

To  air  and  water  changed,  and,  in  my  anguish. 
Through  lips  and  eyes  came  gushing  from  my 
breast. 

Confusion  and  dismay,  together  mingled. 

Forced  such  a feeble  “ Yes ! ” out  of  my  mouth. 

To  understand  it  one  had  need  of  sight. 

Even  as  a cross-bow  breaks,  when’t  is  discharged, 
Too  tensely  drawn  the  bow-string  and  the  bow. 
And  with  less  force  the  arrow  hits  the  mark ; 

So  I gave  way  under  this  heavy  burden. 

Gushing  forth  into  bitter  tears  and  sighs. 

And  the  voice,  fainting,  flagged  upon  its  passage. 


SPRING. 


59 


SPRING. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  CHARLES  D’ORLEANS. 

XV.  CENTURY. 

Gentle  Spring  ! — in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 

For  Winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou, — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 

He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train. 

The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the 
rain  ; 

And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees,  so  old. 
Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow ; 

And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold. 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low ; 

And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather. 

Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 

But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear. 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 
Wrap  him  round  with  a mantle  of  cloud ; 

But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh ; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud. 

And  the  earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly. 

Who  has  toiled  for  nought  both  late  and  early, 

Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year. 

When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 


60 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH. 

Sweet  babe ! true  portrait  of  thy  father’s  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom,  that  thy  lips  have  pressed ! 
Sleep,  little  one ; and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother’s  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to  me ! 

I watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend  ; — 

’T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee, — alone  for  thee  ! 

His  arms  fall  down  ; sleep  sits  upon  his  brow ; 

His  eye  is  closed  ; he  sleeps,  nor  dreams  of  harm. 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple’s  ruddy  glow. 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death’s  cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy  ! — I tremble  with  affright ! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought ! — Unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose  ! 

Sweet  error ! — he  but  slept, — I breathe  again  ; — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile 
0 ! when  shall  h*e,  for  whom  I sigh  in  vain. 

Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 


THE  GRAVE. 

FROM  THE  ANGLO  SAXON. 

For  thee  was  a house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born. 


THE  GRAVE. 


61 


For  thee  was  a mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 

Nor  its  depth  measured, 

Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 

Now  I bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be  ; 

Now  I shall  measure  thee. 

And  the  mould  afterwards. 

Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered, 

It  is  unhigh  and  low  ; 

When  thou  art  therein. 

The  heel-ways  are  low. 

The  side-ways  unhigh. 

The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh, 

So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold. 

Dimly  and  dark. 

Doorless  is  that  house. 

And  dark  it  is  within  ; 

There  thou  art  fast  detained 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell. 
There  thou  shalt  dwell. 

And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

Thus  thou  art  laid, 

And  leavest  thy  friends ; 

Thou  hast  no  friend. 

Who  will  come  to  thee. 

Who  will  ever  see 

How  that  house  pleaseth  thee ; 

Who  will  ever  open 


62 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The  door  for  thee 
And  descend  after  thee, 

For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 
And  hateful  to  see. 


KING  CHRISTIAN. 

A NATIONAL  SONG  OF  DENMARK. 

FROM  THE  DANISH  OF  JOHANNES  EVALD. 

King  Christian  stood  by  the  lofty  mast 
In  mist  and  smoke  ; 

His  sword  was  hammering  so  fast, 

Through  Gothic  helm  and  brain  it  passed ; 
Then  sank  each  hostile  hulk  and  mast. 

In  mist  and  smoke. 

n Fly ! ” shouted  they,  “ fly,  he  who  can ! 

Who  braves  of  Denmark’s  Christian 
The  stroke  ? ” 

Nils  duel  gave  heed  to  the  tempest’s  roar, 
Now  is  the  hour ! 

He  hoisted  his  blood-red  flag  once  more. 

And  smote  upon  the  foe  full  sore. 

And  shouted  loud,  through  the  tempest’s  roar, 
“ Now  is  the  hour ! ” 

« Fly  ! ” shouted  they,  “ for  shelter  fly  ! 

Of  Denmark’s  Juel  who  can  defy 
The  power  ? ” 

North  Sea!  a glimpse  of  Wessel  rent 
Thy  murky  sky ! 

Then  champions  to  thine  arms  were  sent ; 
Terror  and  Death  glared  where  he  went ; 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 


63 


From  the  waves  was  heard  a wail,  that  rent 
Thy  murky  sky ! 

From  Denmark,  thunders  TordenskioP, 

Let  each  to  Heaven  commend  his  soul, 

And  fly ! 

Path  of  the  Dane  to  fame  and  might ! 
Dark-rolling  wave ! 

Receive  thy  friend,  who,  scorning  flight, 
Goes  to  meet  danger  with  despite, 

Proudly  as  thou  the  tempest's  might. 
Dark-rolling  wave ! 

And  amid  pleasures  and  alarms. 

And  war  and  victory,  be  thine  arms 
My  grave ! 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

PPvAGMENT  OF  A MODERN  BALLAD. 
FROM  THE  GERMAN. 


There  sat  one  day  in  quiet,  • 

By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows. 

And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

•The  landlord’s  daughter  filled  their  cups. 
Around  the  rustic  board ; 

Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still. 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 


* Nils  Juel  was  a celebrated  Danish  Admiral,  and  Peder  Wessel, 
a Vice-Admiral,  who  for  his  great  prowess  received  the  pPpular 
title  of  Tordenskiold,  or  Thunder-shield.  In  childhood  he  was  a 
tailor’s  apprentice,  and  rose  to  his  high  rank  before  the  age  of 
twfenty-dght,  when  he  was  killed  in  a duel. 


64 


TRANSLATIONS. 


But,  when  the  maid  departed, 

A Swabian  raised  his  hand, 

And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 

“ Long  live  the  Swabian  land ! 

“ The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 
Cannot  with  that  compare; 

With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men 
And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there.” 

‘‘Ha!”  cried  a Saxon,  laughing, — 

And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine ; 

“I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 

Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine  1 

“ The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 

There  have  I as  many  maidens 
As  fingers  on  this  hand ! ” 

“ Hold  your  tongues ! both  Swabian  and  Saxon  1 ” 
A bold  Bohemian  cries ; 

“ If  there ’s  a heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

“ There  tjie  tailor  blows  the  flute. 

And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 

And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle. 

Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn.” 

^ ^ ^ 0 ^ 

And  then  the  landlord’s  daughter 
Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand. 

And  said,  “ Ye  may  no  more  contend, — 

There  lies  the  happiest  land  1 ” 


THE  DEAD. 


65 


THE  WAVE. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  TIEDGE. 

“ Whither,  thou  turbid  wave 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste. 

As  if  a thief  wert  thou  ? ” 

“I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin’s  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I fly  ^ 
To  the  Sea’s  immensity. 

To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time.” 


THE  DEAD. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  STOCKIMANN. 

How  they  so  softly  rest, 

All,  all  the  holy  dead. 

Unto  whose  dwelling-place 
Now  doth  my  soul  draw  near ! 
How  they  so  softly  rest. 

All  in  their  silent  graves, 

Deep  to  corruption 
Slowly  down-sinking ! 

And  they  no  longer  weep. 
Here,  where  complaint  is  still ! 
And  they  no  longer  feel. 

Here,  where  all  gladness  flies ! 
And,  by  the  cypresses 
Softly  o’ershadowed. 

Until  the  Angel 
Calls  them,  they  slumber ! 

5 


VOL.  1. 


TKANSLATIOXS. 


()6 


THE  BIRD  AND  THE  SHIP. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULl.ER. 

“ The  rivers  rush  into  the  sea, 

By  castle  and  town  they  go ; 

The  winds  behind  them  merrily 
Their  noisy  trumpets  blow. 

“ The  clouds  are  passing  far  and  high, 

We  little  birds  in  them  play ; 

And  every  thing,  that  can  sing  and  fly. 

Goes  with  us,  and  far  away. 

“ I greet  thee,  bonny  boat ! Whither,  or  whence; 

With  thy  fluttering  golden  band  ? — 

“ I greet  thee,  little  bird  ! To  the  wide  sea 
I haste  from  the  narrow  land. 

“ Full  and  swollen  is  every  sail ; 

I see  no  longer  a hill, 

I have  trusted  all  to  the  sounding  gale. 

And  it  will  not  let  me  stand  still. 

“ And  wilt  thou,  little  bird,  go  with  us  ? 

Thou  mayest  stand  on  the  mainmast  tall, 
For  full  to  sinking  is  my  house 
With  merry  companions  all.” — 

“ I need  not  and  seek  not  company, 

Bonny  boat,  I can  sing  all  alone ; 

For  the  mainmast  tall  too  heavy  am  I, 

Bonny  boat,  I have  wings  of  my  own. 

“ High  over  the  sails,  high  over  the  mast. 

Who  shall  gainsay  these  joys  ? 

When  thy  merry  companions  are  still,  at  last. 
Thou  shalt  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice. 


WHITHER. 


67 


“ Who  neither  may  rest,  nor  listen  may, 
God  bless  them  every  one  ! 

1 dart  away,  in  the  liright  blue  day. 

And  the  golden  fields  of  the  sun. 

“ Thus  do  I sing  my  weary  song, 
Wherever  the  four  winds  blow  ; 

And  this  same  song,  my  whole  life  long, 
Neither  Poet  nor  Printer  may  know.” 


WHITHER  ? 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  MULLER. 

I HEARD  a brooklet  gushing 
From  its  rocky  fountain  near, 
Down  into  the  valley  rushing. 

So  fresh  and  wondrous  clear. 

I know  not  what  came  o’er  me. 

Nor  who  the  counsel  gave  ; 

But  I must  hasten  downward. 

All  with  my  pilgrim-stave ; 

Downward,  and  ever  farther. 

And  ever  the  brook  beside ; 

And  ever  fresher  murmured, 

And  ever  clearer,  the  tide. 

Is  this  the  way  I was  going  ? 

^V’hither,  O brooklet,  say ! 

Thou  hast,  with  thy  soft  murmur, 
Murmured  my  senses  away. 

What  do  I say  of  a murmur  ? 

That  can  no  murmur  be ; 


TRANSLATIONS. 


' G8 


’T  is  the  water-nymphs,  that  are  singing 
Their  roundelays  under  me. 

Let  them  sing,  my  friend,  let  them  murmur, 
And  wander  merrily  near ; 

The  wheels  of  a mill  are  going 
In  every  brooklet  clear. 


BEWARE ! 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

I KNOW  a maiden  fair  to  see, 

Take  care ! 

She  can  both  false  and  friendly  be, 
Beware ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not. 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  two  eyes,  so  soft  and  brown. 
Take  care  ! 

She  gives  a side-glance  and  looks  down. 
Beware  ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not. 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

And  she  has  hair  of  a golden  hue, 

Take  care  ! 

And  what  she  says  it  is  not  true. 
Beware  ! Beware  ! 

Trust  her  not. 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  has  a bosom  as  white  as  snow. 

Take  care ! 

She  knows  how  much  it  is  best  to  show, 


SONGS  OF  THE  BELL. 


69  . 


Beware  ! Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee  ! 

She  gives  thee  a garland  woven  fair, 
Take  care  ! 

It  is  a foofs-cap  for  thee  to  wear, 
Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust  her  not, 

She  is  fooling  thee ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BELL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Bell  ! thou  soundest  merrily, 
When  the  bridal  party 
To  the  church  doth  hie  ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  solemnly, 
When,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
Fields  deserted  lie  ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  merrily  ; 
Tellest  thou  at  evening, 
Bed-time  draweth  nigh ! 

Bell ! thou  soundest  mournfully 
Tellest  thou  the  bitter 
Parting  hath  gone  by  ! 

Say ! how  canst  thou  mourn  ? 
How  canst  thou  rejoice  ? 

Thou  art  but  metal  dull ! 

And  yet  all  our  sorrowings, 
And  all  our  rejoicings, 

Thou  dost  feel  them  all ! 


70 


TRANSLATIONS. 


God  hatli  wonders  many, 
Which  we  cannot  fathom. 
Placed  within  thy  form  1 
When  the  heart  is  sinking, 
Thou  alone  canst  raise  it, 
Trembling  in  the  storm  ! 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

“ Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea  ? 

Golden  and  red  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

“ And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening’s  crimson  glow.” 

“ Well  have  I seen  that  castle. 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea, 

And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.” 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a merry  chime  ? 

Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers. 
The  harp  and  the  minstrel’s  rhyme  ?” 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean. 

They  rested  quietly. 

But  I heard  on  the  gale  a sound  of  wail. 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye.”  ' 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 


71 


“ And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  King  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

“ Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A beauteous  maiden  there  ? 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair  ? ” 

“ Well  saw  I the  ancient  parents. 

Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe, 
No  maiden  was  by  their  side  ! ” 


THE  BLACK  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

'T  WAS  Pentecost,  the  Feast  of  Gladness, 

When  woods  and  fields  put  oif  all  sadness. 

Thus  began  the  King  and  spake ; - 
“ So  from  the  halls 
Of  ancient  Hofburg’s  walls, 

A luxuriant  Spring  shall  break.” 

Drums  and  trumpets  echo  loudly, 

Wave  the  crimson  banners  proudly. 

From  balcony  the  King  looked  on  ; 

In  the  play  of  spears, 

Fell  all  the  cavaliers, 

Before  the  monarch’s  .stalwart  son. 

To  the  barrier  of  the  fight 
Rode  at  last  a sable  Knight. 

‘‘  Sir  Knight  1 your  name  and  scutcheon,  say  ! ” 


TRANSLATIONS. 


“ Should  I speak  it  here, 

Ye  would  stand  aghast  with  fear ; 

I am  a Prince  of  mighty  sway ! ” 

AVhen  he  rode  into  the  lists, 

The  arch  of  heaven  grew  black  with  mists, 
And  the  castle  ’gan  to  rock. 

At  the  first  blow, 

Pell  the  youth  from  saddle-bow, 

Hardly  rises  from  the  shock. 

Pipe  and  viol  call  the  dances, 

Torch-light  through  the  high  halls  glances  ; 

Waves  a mighty  shadow  in  ; 

With  manner  bland 
Doth  ask  the  maiden’s  hand, 

Doth  with  her  the  dance  begin  ; 

Danced  in  sable  iron  sark. 

Danced  a measure  weird  and  dark, 

Coldly  clasped  her  limbs  around. 

From  breast  and  hair 
Down  fall  from  her  the  fair 

Flowerets,  faded,  to  the  ground. 

To  the  sumptuous  banquet  came 
Every  Knight  and  every  Dame. 

’Twixt  son  and  daughter  all  distraught, 
With  mournful  mind 
The  ancient  King  reclined. 

Gazed  at  them  in  silent  thought. 

Pale  the  children  both  did  look. 

But  the  guest  a beaker  took ; 

Golden  wine  will  make  you  whole ! ” 
The  children  drank. 

Gave  many  a courteous  thank ; 

“ O that  draught  was  very  cool ! ” 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 


73 


Each  the  father’s  breast  embraces, 
Son  and  daughter;  and  their  faces 
Colorless  grow  utterly. 

A¥hichever  way 

Lo'^'ts  the  fear-struck  father  gray, 

1 1 c beholds  his  children  die. 

“ Woe  ! the  blessed  children  both 
Takest  thou  in  the  joy  of  youth  ; 

Take  me,  too,  the  joyless  father  ! ” 
Spake  the  grim  Guest, 

From  his  hollow,  cavernous  breast, 

‘‘  Roses  in  the  spring  I gather ! ” 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SALIS. 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

Ah ! who  shall  lead  us  thitl^r  ? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather. 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a gentle  hand 
Thither,  O thither. 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  ! Tender  morning  visions 
Of  beauteous  souls  ! The  Future’s  pledge  and  band 
Who  in  Life’s  battle  firm  doth  stand. 

Shall  bear  Hope’s  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

0 Land  ! O Land  ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 


74 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted, 
Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a gentle  hand 
Into  the  land  of  the  great  Departed, 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 


DENVOI. 

Ye  voices,  that  arose 
After  the  Evening’s  close, 

And  whispered  to  my  restless  heart  repose 

Go,  breathe  it  in  the  ear 
Of  all  who  doubt  and  fear. 

And  say  to  them,  “Be  of  good  cheer ! ” 


Ye  sounds,  so  low  and  calm. 

That  in  the  groves  of  balm 
Seemed  to  me  like  an  angel’s  psalm . 

Go,  mingle  yet  once  more 

With  the  perpetual  roar 

Of  the  pine  forest,  dark  and  hoar ! 


Tongues  of  the  dead,  not  lost. 

But  speaking  from  death’s  frost. 

Like  fiery  tongues  at  Pentecost ! 

Glimmer,  as  funeral  lamps. 

Amid  the  chills  and  damps 

Of  the  vast  plain  where  Death  encamps 


BALLADS 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS. 


1841. 


y'- 


i 

j 


PKEFACE. 


There  is  one  poem  in  this  volume,  in  reference 
to  which  a few  introductory  remarks  may  be  use- 
ful. It  is  The  Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper^  from 
the  Swedish  of  Bishop  Tegner  ; a poem  which  en- 
joys no  inconsiderable  reputation  in  the  North  of 
Europe,  and  for  its  beauty  and  simplicity  merits 
the  attention  of  English  readers.  It  is  an  Idyl, 
descriptive  of  scenes  in  a Swedish  village  : and  be- 
longs to  the  same  class  of  poems,  as  the  Luise  of 
Voss  and  the  Hermann  und  Dorothea  of  Gdthe. 
But  the  Swedish  Poet  has  been  guided  by  a surer 
taste,  than  his  German  predecessors.  His  tone  is 
pure  and  elevated ; and  he  rarely,  if  ever,  mistakes 
what  is  trivial  for  what  is  simple. 

There  is  something  patriarchal  still  lingering 
about  rural  life  in  Sweden,  which  renders  it  a fit 
theme  for  song.  Almost  primeval  simplicity  reigns 
over  that  Northern  land, — almost  primeval  solitude 
and  stillness.  You  pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the 
city,  and,  as  if  by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a wild, 
woodland  landscape.  Around  you  are  forests  of 
fir.  Overhead  hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches, 
trailing  with  moss,  and  heavy  with  red  and  blue 
cones.  Under  foot  is  a carpet  of  yellow  leaves  ; 
and  the  air  is  warm  and  balmy.  On  a wooden 
bridge  you  cross  a little  silver  stream;  and  anon 
come  forth  into  a pleasant  and  sunny  land  of  farms. 
Wooden  fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields.  Across 
the  road  are  gates,  which  are  opened  by  troops  of 
(77) 


78 


PREFACE. 


children.  The  peasants  take  off  their  hats  as  you 
pass ; you  sneeze,  and  they  cry,  “ God  bless  you.” 
The  houses  in  the  villages  and  smaller  towns  are  all 
built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the  most  part  painted 
red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are  strewn  with  the 
fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs.  In  many  villages  there 
are  no  taverns,  and  the  peasants  take  turns  in  re- 
ceiving travellers.  The  thrifty  housewife  shows 
you  into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  which  are 
hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the  Bible ; 
and  brings  you  her  heavy  silver  spoons, — an  heir- 
loom,— to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from  the  pan.  You 
have  oaten  cakes  baked  some  months  before  ; or 
bread  with  anise-seed  and  coriander  in  it,  or  per- 
haps a little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his 
horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed  them  to 
your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers  come  and  go  in 
uncouth  one-horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and  hanging  around  their 
necks  in  front,  a leather  wallet,  in  which  they 
carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  bank  notes  of  the 
country,  as  large  as  your  two  hands.  Y’ou  meet, 
also,  groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant  women,  travel- 
ling homeward  or  town-ward  in  pursuit  of  work. 
They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their  hands  their 
shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hollow  of 
the  foot,  and  soles  of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches,  standing 
by  the  road-side,  each  in  its  own  little  garden  of 
Gethsemane.  In  the  parish  register  great  events  are 
doubtless  recorded.  Some  old  king  was  christened 
or  buried  in  that  church ; and  a little  sexton,  with  a 
rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font,  or  the  coffin. 
In  the  churchyard  are  a few  flowers,  and  much 
green  grass ; and  daily  the  shadow  of  the  church 
spire,  with  its  long  tapering  finger,  counts  the 
tombs,  representing  a dial-plate  of  human  life,  on 
which  the  hours  and  minutes  are  the  graves  of 


PREFACE. 


7a 


men.  The  stones  are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and 
perhaps  sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On 
some  are  armorial  bearings;  on  others  only  the 
initials  of  the  poor  tenants,  with  a date,  as  on  the 
roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They  all  sleep  with  their 
heads  to  the  westward.  Each  held  a lighted  taper 
in  his  hand  when  he  died ; and  in  his  coffin  were 
placed  his  little  heart-treasures,  and  a piece  of 
money  for  his  last  journey.  Babes  that  came  life- 
less into  the  world  were  carried  in  the  arms  of 
gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle  they  ever 
slept  in ; and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead  mother 
were  laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child,  that  lived 
and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene  the 
village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in  the  still- 
ness of  midnight,  and  says  in  his  heart,  “ How 
quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed  ! ” 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a poor-box, 
fastened  to  a post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by  a 
padlock,  with  a sloping  wooden  roof  to  keep  off  the 
rain.  If  it  be  Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the 
church  steps  and  con  their  psalm-books.  Others 
are  coming  down  the  road  with  their  beloved  pas- 
tor, who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things  from  beneath 
his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of  fields  and 
harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower,  that 
went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them  to  the  Good 
Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures  of  the 
spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and,  like  Mel- 
chizedek,  both  priest  and  king,  though  lie  has  no 
other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The  women 
carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  silk 
handkerchiefs,  and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good 
man’s  words.  But  the  young  men,  like  Gallio, 
care  for  none  of  these  things.  They  are  busy 
counting  the  plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the  peasant 
girls,  their  number  being  an  indication  of  the 
wearer’s  wealth.  It  may  end  in  a wedding. 

I will  endeavour  to  describe  a village  wedding 


80 


PREFACE. 


i';i  Sweden.  It  shall  be  in  summer  time,  that  there 
may  be  flowers,  and  in  a southern  province,  that 
the  bride  may  be  fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark 
and  of  chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear  morn- 
ing air,  and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bridegroom  with 
golden  locks,  arises  in  the  east,  just  as  our  earthly 
bridegroom  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the  south. 
In  the  yard  there  is  a sound  of  voices  and  tramp- 
ling of  hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and  saddled. 
The  steed  that  is  to  bear  the  bridegroom  has  a. 
bunch  of  flowers  upon  his  forehead,  and  a garland 
of  corn-flowers  around  his  neck.  Friends  from 
the  neighbouring  farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue 
cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind;  and  finally  the 
happy  bridegroom,  with  a whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his  black  jacket, 
comes  forth  from  his  chamber;  and  then  to  horse 
and  away,  towards  the  village  where  the  bride 
already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed  by  some 
half  dozen  village  musicians.  Next  comes  the 
bridegroom  between  his  two  groomsmen,  and  then 
forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wedding  guests,  half  of 
them  perhaps  with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands. 
A kind  of  baggage-wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden 
with  food  and  drink  for  these  merry  pilgrims.  At 
the  entrance  of  every  village  stands  a trium[)hal 
arch,  adorned  with  flowers  and  ribbons  and  ever- 
greens ; and  as  they  pass  beneath  it  the  wedding 
guests  fire  a salute,  and  the  whole  procession  stops. 
And  straight  from  every  pocket  flies  a black-jack, 
filled  with  punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from 
hand  to  hand  among  the  crowd;  provisions  are 
brouo'ht  from  the  wagon,  and  after  eating  and  drink- 
ing  and  hurrahing,  the  procession  moves  forward 
again,  and  at  length  draws  near  the  house  of  the 
bride.  Four  heralds  ride  forward  to  announce 
that  a knight  and  his  attendants  are  in  the  neigh- 
bouring forest,  and,  pray  for  hospitality.  “ How 


PREFACE. 


81 


many  are  you  ? ” asks  the  bride's  father.  “ At 
least  three  hundred,"  is  the  answer;  and  to  this 
the  host  replies,  “ Yes ; were  you  seven  times  as 
many,  you  should  all  be  welcome  ; and  in  token 
thereof  receive  this  cup."  Whereupon  each  herald 
receives  a can  of  ale ; and  soon  after  the  whole 
jovial  company  comes  storming  into  the  farmer’s 
yard,  and,  riding  round  the  May-pole,  which  stands 
in  the  centre,  alights  amid  a grand  salute  and 
flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a crown  upon  her 
head  and  a tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin  Mary 
in  old  church  paintings.  She  is  dressed  in  a red 
boddice  and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen  sleeves.  There 
is  a gilded  belt  around  her  waist ; and  around  her 
neck  strings  of  golden  beads,  and  a golden  chain. 
On  the  crown  rests  a wreath  of  wild  roses,  and 
below  it  another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoul- 
ders falls  her  flaxen  hair ; and  her  blue  innocent 
eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  O thou  good 
soul ! thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a soft  heart ! Thou 
art  poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou  wearest  are 
not  thine.  They  have  been  hired  for  this  great 
day.  Yet  art  thou  rich;  rich  in  health,  rich  in- 
hope,  rich  in  thy  first,  young,  fervent  love.  The 
blessing  of  Heaven  be  upon  thee  ! So  thinks  the 
parish  priest,  as  he  joins  together  the  hands  of 
bride  and  bridegroom,  saying  in  deep,  solemn 
tones, — “ I give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to 
be  thy  wedded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the 
half  of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third 
penny  which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may  inherit, 
and  all  the  rights  which  Upland’s  laws  provide, 
and  the  holy  king  Erik  gave.’’ 

The  dinner  is  now  serveu,  and  the  bride  sits 
between  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The 
Spokesman  delivers  an  oration  after  the  ancient 
custom  of  his  fathers.  He  interlards  it  well  with 
quotations  from  the  Bible  ; and  invites  the  Saviour 

VOL  I.  6 


82 


PREFACE. 


to  be  present  at  this  marriage  feast,  as  he  was  at 
the  marriage  feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table 
is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a long  arm, 
and  the  feast  goes  cheerly  on.  Punch  and  brandy 
pass  round  between  the  courses,  and  here  and 
there  a pipe  is  smoked,  while  waiting  for  the  next 
dish.  They  sit  long  at  table;  but,  as  all  things 
must  have  an  end,  so  must  a Swedish  dinner. 
Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by  the  bride 
and  the  priest,  who  perform  a solemn  minuet  to- 
gether. Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the  Last 
Dance.  The  girls  form  a ring  around  the  bride, 
to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the  married  women, 
who  endeavour  to  break  through  the  magic  circle, 
and  seize  their  new  sister.  After  long  struggling 
they  succeed ; and  the  crown  is  taken  from  her 
head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and  her  bod- 
dice  is  unlaced  and  her  kirtle  taken  off;  and  like 
a vestal  virgin  clad  all  in  white  she  goes,  but  it  is 
to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to  her  grave ; and 
the  wedding  guests  follow  her  with  lighted  candles 
in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a village  bridal. 

Nor  must  I forget  the  suddenly  changing  seasons 
of  the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no  long  and  lin- 
gering spring,  unfolding  leaf  and  blossom  one  by 
one; — no  long  and  lingering  autumn,  pompous 
with  many-colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of  Indian 
summers.  But  winter  and  summer  are  wonderful, 
and  pass  into  each  other.  The  quail  has  hardly 
ceased  piping  in  the  corn,  when  winter  from  the 
folds  of  trailing  clouds  sows  broad-cast  over  the 
land  snow,  icicles,  and  rattling  hail.  The  days 
wane  apace.  Ere  long  the  sun  hardly  rises  above 
the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all.  The  moon 
and  the  stars  shine  through  the  day ; only,  at  noon, 
they  are  paie  and  wan,  and  in  the  southern  sky  a 
red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns  along  the  hori- 
zon, and  then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly  under 
the  silver  moon,  and  under  the  silent,  solemn  stars, 


PREFACE. 


83 


ring  the  steel-shoes  of  the  skaters  on  the  frozen 
sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to  burn, 
faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in  the  waters 
of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a soft  crimson  glow  tinges 
the  heavens.  There  is  a blush  on  the  cheek  of 
night.  The  colors  come  and  go  ; and  change  from 
crimson  to  gold,  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow 
is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the 
zenith,  east  and  west,  flames  a fiery  sword ; and  a 
broad  band  passes  athwart  the  heavens,  like  a sum- 
mer sunset.  Soft  purple  clouds  come  sailing  over 
the  sky,  and  through  their  vapory  folds  the  wink- 
ing stars  shine  white  as  silver.  With  such  pomp 
as  this  is  Merry  Christmas  ushered  in,  though  only 
a single  star  heralded  the  first  Christmas.  And  in 
memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants  dance 
on  straw ; and  the  peasant  girls  throw  straws  at  the 
timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that 
sticks  in  a crack  shall  a groomsman  come  to  their 
wedding.  Merry  Christmas  indeed!  For  pious 
souls  there  shall  be  church  songs  and  sermons,  but 
for  Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and  nut  brown  ale 
in  wooden  bowls ; and  the  great  Yulecake  crowned 
with  a cheese,  and  garlanded  with  apples,  and  up- 
holding a three-armed  candlestick  over  the  Christ- 
mas feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons  Lunds- 
bracka,  and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great  Riddar 
Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  mid-summer,  full  of 
blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is  come  I 
Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers  and  festival  of 
heathen  Balder ; and  in  every  village  there  is  a 
May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and  roses 
and  ribbons  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  a noisy 
weathercock  on  top,  to  tell  the  village  whence  the 
wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goeth.  The  sun  does 


* Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales 


84 


PKEFACE. 


not  set  till  ten  o’clock  at  night ; and  the  children 
are  at  play  in  the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  win- 
dows and  doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may  sit  and 
read  till  midnight  without  a candle.  O how  beauti- 
ful is  the  summer  night,  which  is  not  night,  but  a 
sunless  yet  unclouded  day,  descending  upon  earth 
with  dews,  and  shadows,  and  refreshing  coolness  1 
How  beautiful  the  long,  mild  twilight,  which  like  a 
silver  clasp  unites  to-day  with  yesterday ! How 
beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and  Even- 
ing thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the 
starless  sky  of  midnight ! From  the  church-tower 
in  the  public  square  the  bell  tolls  the  hour,  with  a 
soft,  musical  chime ; and  the  watchman,  whose 
watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a blast  in  his  horn, 
for  each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times,  to 
the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a sonorous  voice 
he  chaunts, — 

“Ho!  watchman,  ho! 

Twelve  is  the  clock! 

God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand! 

Twelve  is  the  clock ! ” 

From  his  swallow’s  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see 
the  sun  all  night  long ; and  farther  north  the  priest 
stands  at  his  door  in  the  wa^'m  midnight,  and  lights 
his  pipe  with  a common  burning  glass. 

I trust  that  these  remarks  will  not  be  deemed 
irrelevant  to  the  poem,  but  will  lead  to  a clearer 
understanding  of  it.  The  translation  is  literal, 
perhaps  to  a fault.  In  no  instance  have  I done  the 
author  a wrong,  by  introducing  into  his  work  any 
supposed  improvements  or  embellishments  of  my 
own.  I have  preserved  even  the  measure;  that 
inexorable  hexameter,  in  which,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, the  motions  of  the  English  Muse  are  not 
unlike  those  of  a prisoner  dancing  to  the  music  of 
his  chains ; and  perhaps,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said  of 


PREFACE. 


85 


die  dancing  dog,  ‘‘  die  wonder  is  not  that  she 
should  do  it  so  well,  but  that  she  should  do  it 
at  all.” 

Esaias  Tegner,  the  author  of  -this  poem,  was 
born  in  the  parish  of  By  in  Warmland,  in  the  year 
1782.  In  1799  he  entered  the  University  of  Lund, 
as  a student;  and  in  1812  was  appointed  Professor 
of  Greek  in  that  institution.  In  1824  he  became 
Bishop  of  Wexid,  which  office  he  still  holds.  He 
stands  first  among  all  the  poets  of  Sweden,  living 
or  dead.  His  principal  work  is  Frithiofs  Saga; 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  poems  of  the  age. 
This  modern  Scald  has  written  his  name  in  immor- 
tal runes.  He  is  the  glory  and  boast  of  Sweden ; 
a prophet,  honored  in  his  own  country,  and  adding 
one  more  to  the  list  of  great  names,  that  adorn  her 
history. 

1841. 


BALLADS. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 


[The  following  Ballad  was  suggested  to  me  while  riding  on  the 
seashore  at  Newport.  A year  or  two  previous  a skeleton  had 
been  dug  up  at  Fall  River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded  armour; 
and  the  idea  occurred  to  me  of  connecting  it  with  the  Round 
Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known  hitherto  as  the  Old  Wind- 
Mill,  though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes  as  a work  of  their  early 
ancestors.  Professor  Rafn,  in  the  Memoires  de  La  Societc  Royale 
des  Antiquaircs  du  Nord  for  1838-1839,  says ; 

“ There  is  no  mistaking  in  this  instance  the  style  in  which  the 
more  ancient  stone  edifices  of  the  North  were  constructed,  the  style 
which  belongs  to  the  Roman  or  Ante-Gothic  architecture,  and 
which,  especially  after  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  diffused  itself 
from  Italy  over  the  whole  of  the  West  and  North  of  Europe, 
where  it  continued  to  predominate  until  the  close  of  the  12th 
century ; that  style,  which  some  authors  have,  from  one  of  its 
most  striking  characteristics,  called  the  round  arch  style,  the 
same  which  in  England  is  denominated  Saxon  and  sometimes 
Norman  architecture. 

“ On  the  ancient  structure  in  Newport  there  are  no  ornaments 
remaining,  which  might  possibly  have  served  to  guide  us  in  as- 
signing the  probable  date  of  its  erection.  That  no  vestige  what- 
ever is  found  of  the  pointed  arch,  nor  any  approximation  to  it,  is 
indicative  of  an  earlier  rather  than  of  a later  period.  From  such 
characteristics  as  remain,  however,  we  can  scarcely  form  any 
other  inference  than  one,  in  which  I am  persuaded  that  all,  who 
are  familiar  with  Old  Northern  architecture,  will  concur,  that 
THIS  BUILDING  WAS  ERECTED  AT  A PERIOD  DECIDEDLY  NOT  LATER 
THAN  THE  12th  CENTURY.  This  remark  applies,  of  course,  to  the 
original  building  only,  and  not  to  the  alterations  that  it  subse- 
quently received;  for  there  are  several  such  alterations  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  building  which  cannot  be  mistaken,  and  which 
were  most  likely  occasioned  by  its  being  adapted  in  modern  times 
to  various  uses,  for  example  as  the  substructure  of  a windmill, 
and  latterly  as  a hay  magazine.  To  the  same  times  may  be  re- 
ferred the  windows,  the  fireplace,  and  the  apertures  made  above 
the  columns.  That  this  building  could  not  have  been  erected  for 
a windmill,  is  what  an  architect  will  easily  discern.” 

I will  not  enter  into  a discussion  of  the  point.  It  is  sufficiently 
well  established  for  a purpose  of  a ballad ; though  doubtless  many 
an  honest  citizen  of  Newport,  who  has  passed  his  days  within 
(89) 


90 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Bight  of  the  Round  Tower,  will  be  ready  to  exclaim  with  Sancho ; 
“ God  bless  me ! did  I not  warn  you  to  have  a care  of  what  you 
were  doing,  for  that  it  was  nothing  but  a windmill ; and  nobody 
could  mistake  it,  hut  one  who  had  the  like  in  his  head.”] 

“ Speak  ! speak ! thou  fearful  guest ! 

Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armour  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 

Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 

But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms. 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ? ” 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise. 

As  when  the  Northern  skies 
Gleam  in  December; 

And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December’s  snow. 

Came  a dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart’s  chamber. 

“ I was  a Viking  old ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold. 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told. 

No  Saga  taught  thee ! 

Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse. 

Else  dread  a dead  man’s  curse ; 

For  this  I sought  thee. 

“ Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 

By  the  wild  Baltic’s  strand, 

I,  with  my  childish  hand. 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ; 

And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 

Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 

That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on. 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 


91 


“ Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 
Fled  like  a shadow ; 

Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf’s  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

“ But  when  I older  grew, 
Joining  a corsair’s  crew. 

O’er  the  dark  sea  I flew 
With  the  marauders. 

Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped. 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 

“ Many  a wassail-bout 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 
Set  the  cocks  crowing. 

As  we  the  Berserk’s  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale. 
Draining  the  oaken  pail. 

Filled  to  o’erflowing. 

“ Once  as  I told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea. 

Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me. 
Burning  yet  tender ; 

And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine. 

On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 
Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

“ I wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid. 


92 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 


And  in  the  forest’s  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 

Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 

Like  birds  within  their  nest 
By  the  hawk  frighted. 

‘‘  Bright  in  her  father’s  hall  . 

Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 
Chaunting  his  glory ; 

When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I asked  his  daughter’s  hand. 

Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 
To  hear  my  story. 

“ While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed. 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed. 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  brightly, 

So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn. 

Out  of  those  lips  unshorn. 

From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

She  was  a Prince’s  child, 

I but  a Viking  wild. 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 
I was  discarded  ! 

Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew’s  flight,  . 

Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

Scarce  had  I put  to  sea. 

Bearing  the  maid  with  me, — 

Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! — 


THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOUR. 


93 


When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a reed  each  mast. 

Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  tvith  a sjidden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 

So  1%at  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

“ And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Bound  veered  the  flapping  sail. 
Death  ! was  the  helmsman’s  hail 
Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 
Through  the  black  water  ! 

“ As  with  his  wings  aslant. 

Sails  the  fierce  cormorant. 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt. 

With  his  prey  laden. 

So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again. 

Through  the  wild  hurricane. 
Bore  I the  maiden. 

Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o’er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 
Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady’s  bower 
Built  I the  lofty  tower. 

Which,  to  this  very  hour. 

Stands  looking  sea-ward. 


94 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


“ There  lived  we  many  years ; 

Time  dried  the  maiden’s  tears ; 

She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a mother  ; 

Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 

Under  that  tower  she  lies  ; 

Ne’er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

“ Still  grew  my  bos(jfn  then,*  . 

Still  as  a stagnant  Yen  ! ^ 

Hateful  to  me  were  men,  ^ 

The  sun-light  hateful ! 

In  the  vast  forest  here, 

Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 

Fell  I upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 

‘‘  Thus,  seamed  with  many  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 

Up  to  its  native  stars 
My  soul  ascended  ! 

There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior’s  soul. 

Skoal  I to  the  Northland ! skoal  I ” * 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 

* In  Scandanavia  this  is  the  customary  salutation  when  drink- 
ing a health.  I have  slightly  changed  the  orthography  of  the 
word,  in  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pronunciation. 


95 


It  was  me  scljbon^r  Hesperus,— > 

Th^  sailed  wintry  sea  ; 

And  the  \skipper  tod  taken  his  little  daughter, 

To  ^ ^mpany . 

Blue  were  her  e^s'Jts  the  fairy-flax, 
ifer,  cteek^  likje  vth!e;4l|y^yn  of  day. 

And  hel^fepsom  whit^;a,^  l^e  hawthorn  buds. 

That  op®‘->i^  ,tba  moijjtb  of  May-  - 

The  skipper  he  stood  be^de  the  helm  / 

His  pipe  Was  in  his  moutlfc^ 

And  he  watched  how  the  veerin^5iaw;.,dtd  blow^ 
The  smoke  now  West,  now  Sout^.  ; - ^ - 

Then  up  and  spake  an  old  Sail6r,  , 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  Main, 

I pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port. 

For  I fear  a hurricane. 

Last  night,  the  moon  had  a golden  ring. 

And  to-night  ng  moon  we  see  ! ” 

The  skipper,  he  blew  a whiff  from  his  pipe. 

And  a scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A gale  from  the  Northeast ; 

The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine. 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain. 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 

She  shuddered  and  paused,  like  a frighted  steed, 
Then  leaped  her  cable’s  length. 


96 


BALLADS  AND 


OTHER 


Come  liither  ! come  hither  ! my^tlj;^ 
And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 

For  I can  weather  the  rou^he||5^^^ 
That  ever  wind  did  blovs^^"^ 


;hter,' 


He  wrapped  her  warm  in  hifliiCe^ant^  coat 
Against  the  stinging  blait^*^  -’''‘i 
He  cut  a rope  from  a brokef|>'  sp^arj-'i 
And  bound  her  to  th^mast. 


■ O father  ! I hear  the  ch’^^-eh-bells  ring, 
O say,  what  maiHt  be  ? --r 
-bell  on- a roc*k-botind'‘Cb1ist  ! 

for  the^Tpen  sea. 


e sound  of  guns, 

O sa^y^iat  may  it  be  ? ” 

’’‘"^p  in  distress,  that  cannot  live” 
In  such  an  angry  sea  ! ” 


>» 


O father  ! I see  a gleaming  light, 

O say,  what  may  it  be  ? 

But  the  father  answered  never  a word, 
A frozen  corpse  was  he. 


Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark. 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies. 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming  snow 
On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 


Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 
That  saved  she  might  be  ; 

And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the  wave. 
On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 


And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow. 

Like  a sheeted  gliost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


9 


And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 
A sound  came  from  the  land ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf, 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows, 

She  drifted  a dreary  wreck, 

And  a whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 
Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool. 

But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice. 

With  the  masts  went  by  the  board ; 

Like  a vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank, 

Ho  ! ho ! the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A fisherman  stood  aghast, 

To  see  the  form  of  a maiden  fair. 

Lashed  close  to  a drifting  mast. 

The  salt-sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast. 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 

And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 
On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow ! 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe  I 


VOL.  I. 


7 


98 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  UHLAND. 

[The  tradition,  upon  which  this  ballad  is  founded,  and  the 
“ shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall,"  still  exist  in  England.  The 
goblet  is  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Christopher  Musgrave,  Bart.,  of 
Eden  Hall,  Cumberland;  and  is  not  so  entirely  shattered,  as  the 
ballad  leaves  it.] 

Of  Edenhall,  the  youthful  Lord 
Bids  sound  the  festal  trumpet’s  call ; 

He  rises  at  the  banquet  board, 

And  cries,  ’mid  the  drunken  revellers  all, 

“ Now  bring  me  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ” 

The  butler  hears  the  words  with  pain, 

The  house’s  oldest  seneschal, 

Takes  slow  from  its  silken  cloth  again 
The  drinking  glass  of  crystal  tall ; 

They  call  it  The  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  said  the  Lord  ; “ This  glass  to  praise. 
Fill  with  red  wine  from  Portugal  ! ” 

The  gray-beard  with  trembling  hand  obeys ; 

A purple  light  shines  over  all, 

It  beams  from  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

Then  speaks  the  Lord,  and  waves  it  light, 

“ This  glass  of  flashing  crystal  tall 
Gave  to  my  sires  the  Fountain-Sprite ; 

She  wrote  in  it ; If  this  glass  doth  fall, 
Farewell  then^  0 Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

“ ’T  was  right  a goblet  the  Fate  should  be 
Of  the  joyous  race  of  Edenhall ! 

Deep  draughts  drink  we  right  willingly  ; 

And  willingly  ring,  with  merry  call, 

Kling ! klang  ! to  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ’* 


THE  LUCK  OF  EDENHALL. 


99 


First  rings  it  deep,  and  full,  and  mild, 

Like  to  the  song  of  a nightingale  : 

Then  like  the  roar  of  a torrent  wild  ; 

Then  mutters  at  last  like  the  thunder’s  fall, 
The  glorious  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“ For  its  keeper  takes  a rai’e  of  might, 

The  fragile  goblet  of  crystal  tall ; 

It  has  lasted  longer  than  is  right ; 

Kling!  klang! — with  a harder  Llow  than  all 
Will  i try  the  Luck  of  Edenhall ! ” 

As  the  goblet  ringing  flies  apart, 

Suddenly  cracks  the  vaulted  hall ; 

And  through  the  rift,  the  wild  flames  start ; 
The  guests  in  dust  are  scattered  all, 

With  the  breaking  Luck  of  Edenhall ! 

In  storms  the  foe,  with  fire  and  sword ; 

He  in  the  night  had  scaled  the  wall, 

Slain  by  the  sword  lies  the  youthful  Lord, 
But  holds  in  his  hand  the  crystal  tall. 

The  shattered  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

On  the  morrow  the  butler  gropes  alone. 
The  gray-beard  in  the  desert  hall. 

He  seeks  his  Lord’s  burnt  skeleton. 

He  seeks  in  the  dismal  ruin’s  fall 
The  shards  of  the  Luck  of  Edenhall. 

“ The  stone  wall,”  saith  he,  “ doth  fall  aside, 
Down  must  the  stately  columns  fall ; 

Glass  is  this  earth’s  Luck  and  Pride  ; 

In  atoms  shall  fall  this  earthly  ball 
One  day  like  the  Luck  of  Edenhall  1 ” 


100 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 

FROM  THE  DANISH. 

[The  following  strange  and  somewhat  mystical  ballad  is  from 
Nyerup  and  Rahbek’s  Danske  Viser  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  seems 
to  refer  to  the  first  preaching  of  Christianity  in  the  North,  and 
to  the  institution  of  Knight-Errantry.  The  three  maidens  I sup 
pose  to  be  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  The  irregularities  of  the 
original  have  been  carefully  preserved  in  the  translation.] 

Sir  Oluf  he  rideth  over  the  plain, 

Full  seven  miles  broad  and  seven  miles  wide, 

But  never,  ah  never  can  meet  with  the  man 
A tilt  with  him  dare  ride. 

He  saw  under  the  hill-side 
A Knight  full  well  equipped ; 

His  steed  was  black,  his  helm  was  barred ; 

He  was  riding  at  full  speed. 

He  wore  upon  his  spurs 
Twelve  little  golden  birds  ; 

Anon  he  spurred  his  steed  with  a clang. 

And  there  sat  all  the  birds  and  sang. 

He  wore  upon  his  mail 

Twelve  little  golden  wheels, 

Anon  in  eddies  the  wild  wind  blew. 

And  round  and  round  the  wheels  they  flew. 

He  wore  before  his  breast 

A lance  that  was  poised  in  rest ; 

And  it  was  sharper  than  diamond-stone. 

It  made  Sir  Oluf ’s  heart  to  groan. 

He  wore  upon  his  helm, 

A wreath  of  ruddy  gold ; 

And  that  gave  him  the  Maidens  Three, 

The  youngest  was  fair  to  behold. 


THE  ELECTED  KNIGHT. 


101 


Sir  Oluf  questioned  the  Knight  eftsoon 
If  he  were  come  from  heaven  down  ; 

“ Art  thou  Christ  of  Heaven,”  quoth  he, 

“ So  will  I yield  me  unto  thee.” 

I am  not  Christ  the  Great, 

Thou  shalt  not  yield  thee  yet ; 

[ am  an  Unknown  Knight, 

Three  modest  Maidens  have  me  bedight.” 

‘ Art  thou  a Knight  elected. 

And  have  three  Maidens  thee  bedight ; 

Bo  shalt  thou  ride  a tilt  this  day, 

For  all  the  Maidens’  honor!” 

The  first  tilt  they  together  rode. 

They  put  their  steeds  to  the  test ; 

The  second  tilt  they  together  rode. 

They  proved  their  manhood  best. 

The  third  tilt  they  together  rode. 

Neither  of  them  would  yield  ; 

The  fourth  tilt  they  together  rode. 

They  both  fell  on  the  field. 

Now  lie  the  lords  upon  the  plain. 

And  their  blood  runs  unto  death  ; 

Now  sit  the  Maidens  in  the  high  tower, 

The  youngest  sorrows  till  death. 


THE 

CHILDREN 

OF 

THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 


PROM  THE  SWEDISH  OF  BISHOP  TEQNEtt 


THK 

CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER. 

Pentecost,  day  of  rejoicing,  had  come.  The 
church  of  the  village 

Gleaming  stood  in  the  morning’s  sheen.  On  the 
spire  of  the  belfry. 

Tipped  with  a vane  of  metal,  the  friendly  flames 
of  the  Spring-sun 

Glanced  like  the  tongues  of  fire,  beheld  by  Apostles 
aforetime.  . 

Clear  was  the  heaven  and  blue,  and  May,  with  her 
cap  crowned  with  roses. 

Stood  in  her  holiday  dress  in  the  fields,  and  the 
wind  and  the  brooklet 

Murmured  gladness  and  peace,  God’s-peace  ! with 
lips  rosy-tinted 

Whispered  the  race  of  the  flowers,  and  merry  on 
balancing  branches 

Birds  were  singing  their  carol,  a jubilant  hymn  to 
the  Highest. 

Swept  and  clean  was  the  churchyard.  Adorned 
like  a leaf-woven  arbour 

Stood  its  old-fashioned  gate ; and  within  upon 
each  cross  of  iron 

Hung  was  a fragrant  garland,  new  twined  by  the 
hands  of  afiection. 

Even  the  dial,  that  stood  on  a hillock  among  the 
departed, 


(105) 


106 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POExMS. 


(There  full  a hundred  years  had  it  stood,) 
embellished  with  blossoms. 

Like  to  the  patriarch  hoary,  the  sage  of  his  kith 
and  the  hamlet. 

Who  on  his  birth-day  is  crowned  by  children  and 
children’s  children. 

So  stood  the  ancient  prophet,  and  mute  with  his 
pencil  of  iron 

Marked  on  the  tablet  of  stone,  and  measured  the 
time  and  its  changes. 

While  all  around  at  his  feet,  an  eternity  slumbered 
in  quiet. 

Also  the  church  within  was  adorned,  for  this  was 
the  season 

When  the  young,  their  parents’  hope,  and  the 
loved-ones  of  heaven, 

Should  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  renew  the  vows  of 
their  baptism. 

Therefore  each  nook  and  corner  was  swept  and 
cleaned,  and  the  dust  was 

Blown  from  the  walls  and  ceiling,  and  from  the 
oil-painted  benches. 

There  stood  the  church  like  a garden  ; the  Feast  of 
the  Leafy  Pavilions  * 

Saw  we  in  living  presentment.  From  noble  arms 
on  the  church  wall 

Grew  forth  a cluster  of  leaves,  and  the  preacher’s 
pulpit  of  oak-wood 

Budded  once  more  anew,  as  aforetime  the  rod 
before  Aaron. 

Wreathed  thereon  was  the  Bible  with  leaves,  and 
the  dove,  washed  with  silver. 

Under  its  canopy  fastened,  had  on  it  a necklace  of 
wind-flowers. 

But  in  front  of  the  choir,  round  the  altar-piece 
painted  by  Hdrberg,f 

♦The  Feast  of  the  Tabernacles;  in  Swedish,  Lofliydaoliogtiden^ 

the  Leaf-huts’-high-tide. 

t The  pejisant-painter  of  Sweden.  He  is  known  chiefly  by  his 

altar  pieces  in  the  village  churches. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD*S  SUPPER.  107 


Crept  a garland  gigantic  ; and  bright-curling  tress- 
es of  angels. 

Peeped,  like  the  sun  from  a cloud,  from  out  of  the 
shadowy  leaf-work. 

Likewise  the  lustre  of  brass,  new'-polished,  blinked 
from  the  ceiling, 

And  for  lights  there  were  lilies  of  Pentecost  set  in 
the  sockets. 

Loud  rang  the  bells  already;  the  thronging 
crowd  was  assembled 

Far  from  valleys  and  hills,  to  list  to  the  holy 
preaching. 

Hark  ! then  roll  forth  at  once  the  mighty  tones 
from  the  organ, 

Hover  like  voices  from  God,  aloft  like  invisible 
spirits. 

Like  as  Elias  in  heaven,  when  he  cast  off  from 
him  his  mantle. 

Even  so  cast  olf  the  soul  its  garments  of  earth; 
and  with  one  voice 

Chimed  in  the  congregation,  and  sang  an  anthem 
immortal 

Of  the  sublime  Wallin,*  of  David’s  harp  in  the 
North-land 

Tuned  to  the  choral  of  Luther ; the  song  on  its 
powerful  pinions 

Took  every  living  soul,  and  lifted  it  gently  to 
heaven. 

And  every  face  did  shine  like  the  Holy  One’s  face 
upon  Tabor. 

Lo  I there  entered  them  into  the  church  the  Rev- 
erend Teacher. 

Father  he  hight  and  he  was  in  the  parish;  a 
christianly  plainness 

Clothed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  the  old  man  of 
seventy  winters. 

*A  distinguished  pulpit-orator  and  poet.  He  is  particularly 

remarkable  for  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  his  psalms. 


108 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Friendly  was  he  to  behold,  and  glad  as  the  herald- 
ing angel 

Walked  he  among  the  crowds,  but  still  a contem- 
plative grandeur 

Lay  on  his  forehead  as  clear,  as  on  moss-covered 
grave-stone  a sun-beam. 

As  in  his  inspiration  (an  evening  twilight  that 
faintly 

Gleams  in  the  human  soul,  even  now,  from  the 
day  of  creation) 

Th’  Artist,  the  friend  of  heaven,  imagines  Saint 
John  when  in  Patmos, 

Gray,  with  his  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  so  seemed 
then  the  old  man  ; 

Such  was  the  glance  of  his  eye,  and  such  were  his 
tresses  of  silver. 

All  the  congregation  arose  in  the  pews  that  were 
numbered. 

But  with  a cordial  look,  to  the  right  and  the  left 
hand,  the  old  man 

Nodding  all  hail  and  peace,  disappeared  in  the 
innermost  chancel. 

Simply  and  solemnly  now  proceeded  the  Chris- 
tian service. 

Singing  and  prayer,  and  at  last  an  ardent  dis- 
course from  the  old  man. 

Many  a moving  word  and  warning,  that  out  of  the 
heart  came. 

Fell  like  the  dew  of  the  morning,  like  manna  on 
those  in  the  desert. 

Afterwards,  when  all  was  finished,  the  Teacher 
reentered  the  chancel. 

Followed  therein  by  the  young.  On  the  right 
hand  the  boys  had  their  places. 

Delicate  figures,  with  close-curling  hair  and  cheeks 
rosy-blooming. 

But  on  the  left-hand  of  these,  there  stood  the  trem- 
ulous lilies. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD  S SUPPER.  109 

Tinged  with  the  blushing  light  of  the  morning,  the 
diffident  maidens, — 

Folding  their  hands  in  prayer,  and  their  eyes  cast 
down  on  the  pavement. 

Now  came,  with  question  and  answer,  the  cate- 
chism. In  the  beginning 

Answered  the  children  with  troubled  and  faltering 
voice,  but  the  old  man’s 

Glances  of  kindness  encouraged  them  soon,  and 
the  doctrines  eternal 

Flowed,  like  the  waters  of  fountains,  so  clear  from 
lips  unpolluted. 

Whene’er  the  answer  was  closed,  and  as  oft  as 
they  named  the  Redeemer, 

Lowly  louted  the  boys,  and  lowly  the  maidens  all 
courtesied. 

Friendly  the  Teacher  stood,  like  an  angel  of  light 
there  among  them. 

And  to  the  children  explained  he  the  holy,  the 
highest,  in  few  words. 

Thorough,  yet  simple  and  clear,  for  sublimity 
always  is  simple. 

Both  in  sermon  and  song,  a child  can  seize  on  its 
meaning. 

Even  as  the  green-growing  bud  is  unfolded  when 
Spring-tide  approaches 

Leaf  by  leaf  is  developed,  and,  warmed  by  the 
radiant  sunshine. 

Blushes  with  purple  and  gold,  till  at  last  the  per- 
fected blossom 

Opens  its  odorous  chalice,  and  rocks  with  its  crown 
in  the  breezes. 

So  was  unfolded  here  the  Christian  lore  of  salva- 
tion. 

Line  by  line  from  the  soul  of  childhood.  The 
fathers  and  mothers 

Stood  behind  them  in  tears,  and  were  glad  at  each 
well-worded  answer. 


110 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Now  went  the  old  man  up  to  the  altar ; — and 
straightway  transfigured 

(So  did  it  seem  unto  me)  was  then  the  affectionate 
Teacher. 

Like  the  Lord's  Prophet  sublime,  and  awful  as 
Death  and  as  Judgment 

Stood  he,  the  God-commissioned,  the  soul-searcher, 
earthward  descending. 

Glances,  sharp  as  a sword,  into  hearts,  that  to  him 
were  transparent 

Shot  he ; his  voice  was  deep,  was  low  like  the 
thunder  afar  off. 

So  on  a sudden  transfigured  he  stood  there,  he 
spake  and  he  questioned. 

“This  is  the  faith  of  the  Fathers,  the  faith  the 
Apostles  delivered, 

This  is  moreover  the  faith  whereunto  I baptized 
you,  while  still  ye 

Lay  on  your  mothers'  breasts,  and  nearer  the  por- 
tals of  heaven. 

Slumberinii  received  you  then  the  Holy  Church  in 
its  bosom ; 

Wakened  from  sleep  are  ye  now,  and  the  light  in 
its  radiant  splendor 

Rains  from  the  heaven  downward ; — to-day  on  the 
threshold  of  childhood 

Kindly  she  frees  you  again,  to  examine  and  make 
your  election. 

For  she  knows  nought  of  compulsion,  and  only 
conviction  desireth. 

This  is  the  hour  of  your  trial,  the  turning-point  of 
existence. 

Seed  for  the  coming  days ; without  revocation  de- 
parteth 

Now  from  your  lips  the  confession ; Bethink  ye, 
before  ye  make  answer ! 

Think  not,  O think  not  with  guile  to  deceive  the 
questioning  Teacher. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER.  Ill 

Sharp  is  his  eye  to-day,  and  a curse  ever  rests 
upon  falsehood. 

Enter  not  with  a lie  on  Life’s  journey ; the  multi- 
tude hears  you, 

Brothers  and  sisters  and  parents,  what  dear  upon 
earth  is  and  holy 

Standeth  before  your  sight  as  a witness ; the  Judge 
everlasting 

Looks  from  the  sun  down  upon  you,  and  angels  in 
waiting  beside  him 

Grave  your  confession  in  letters  of  fire,  upon  tab- 
lets eternal. 

Thus  then, — believe  ye  in  God,  in  the  Father  who 
this  world  created  ? 

Him  who  redeemed  it,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit 
where  both  are  united  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  (a  holy  promise  !)  to 
cherish 

God  more  than  all  things  earthly,  and  every  man 
as  a brother  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  here,  to  confirm  your  faith  by 
your  living, 

Th’  heavenly  faith  of  affection  ! to  hope,  to  forgive, 
and  to  suffer. 

Be  what  it  may  your  condition,  and  walk  before 
God  in  uprightness  ? 

Will  ye  promise  me  this  before  God  and  man  ? ” 
— With  a clear  voice 

Answered  the  young  men  Yes  ! and  Yes  ! with 
lips  softly-breathing 

Answered  the  maidens  eke.  Then  dissolved  from 
the  brow  of  the  Teacher 

Clouds  with  the  thunders  therein,  and  he  spake 
in  accents  more  gentle. 

Soft  as  the  evening’s  breath,  as  harps  by  Babylon’s 
rivers. 

Hail,  then,  hail  to  you  all  ! To  the  heirdom 
of  hea\-'en  lie  ye  wielcdme  ! 


112 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Children  no  more  from  this  day,  but  by  covenant 
brothers  and  sisters ! 

Yet, — for  what  reason  not  children  ? Of  such  is 
the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Here  upon  earth  an  assemblage  of  children,  in 
heaven  one  father. 

Ruling  them  all  as  his  household, — forgiving  in 
turn  and  chastising. 

That  is  of  human  life  a picture,  as  Scripture  has 
taught  us. 

Blessed  are  the  pure  before  God ! Upon  purity 
and  upon  virtue 

Resteth  the  Christian  Faith;  she  herself  from  on 
high  is  descended. 

Strong  as  a man  and  pure  as  a child,  is  the  sum  of 
the  doctrine. 

Which  the  Divine  One  taught,  and  suffered  and 
died  on  the  cross  for. 

O ! as  ye  wander  this  day  from  childhood’s  sacred 
asylum 

Downward  and  ever  downward,  and  deeper  in 
Age’s  chill  valley, 

O 1 how  soon  will  ye  come, — too  soon  ! — and  long 
to  turn  backward 

Up  to  its  hill-tops  again,  to  the  sun-illumined, 
where  Judgment 

Stood  like  a father  before  you,  and  Pardon,  clad 
like  a mother. 

Gave  you  her  hand  to  kiss,  and  the  loving  heart 
was  forgiven. 

Life  was  a play  and  your  hands  grasped  after  the 
roses  of  heaven ! 

Seventy  years  have  I lived  already;  the  father 
eternal 

Gave  me  gladness  and  care  ; but  the  loveliest  hours 
of  existence, 

When  I have  steadfastly  gazed  in  their  eyes,  I have 
instantly  known  them. 

Known  them  all  again ; — they  were  my  childhood’s 
acquaintance. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD^S  SUPPER.  113 


Therefore  take  them  henceforth,  as  guides  in  the 
paths  of  existence, 

Prayer,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  and  In- 
nocence, bride  of  man’s  childliood. 

Innocence,  child  beloved,  is  a guest  from  the  world 
of  the  blessed. 

Beautiful,  and  in  her  hand  a lily;  on  life’s  roaring 
billows 

Swings  she  in  safety,  she  heedeth  them  not,  in  the 
ship  she  is  sleeping. 

Calmly  she  gazes  around  in  the  turmoil  of  men  ; in 
the  desert 

Angels  descend  and  minister  unto  her;  she  herself 
knoweth 

Naught  of  her  glorious  attendance ; but  follows 
faithful  and  humble. 

Follows  so  long  as  she  may  her  friend;  O do  not 
reject  her. 

For  she  cometh  trom  God  and  she  holdeth  the  keys 
of  the  heavens. — 

Prayer  is  Innocence’  friend ; and  willingly  flycth 
incessant 

’Twixt  the  earth  and  the  sky,  the  carrier-pigeon  of 
heaven. 

Son  of  Eternity,  fettered  in  Time,  and  an  exile,  the 
Spirit 

Tu^s  at  his  chains  evermore,  and  strujjojles  like 

O 7 CO 

names  ever  upward. 

Still  he  recalls  with  emotion  his  father’s  manifold 
mansions. 

Thinks  of  the  land  of  his  fathers,  where  blossomed 
more  freshly  the  flowers. 

Shone  a more  beautiful  sun,  and  he  played  with 
the  winged  angels. 

Then  grows  the  earth  too  narrow,  too  close  ; and 
homesick  for  heaven 

Longs  the  wanderer  again ; and  the  Spirit’s  long- 
ings are  worship ; 

VOL.  I.  8 


114 


JiALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Worship  is  called  his  most  beautiful  hour,  and  its 
tongue  is  entreaty. 

Ah ! when  the  infinite  burden  of  life  descendeth 
upon  us, 

Crushes  to  earth  our  hope,  and,  under  the  earth, 
in  the  grave-yard, — 

Then  it  is  good  to  pray  unto  God ; for  his  sorrow- 
ing children 

Turns  he  ne’er  from  his  door,  but  he  heals  and 
helps  and  consoles  them. 

Yet  is  it  better  to  pray  when  all  things  are  pros- 
perous with  us. 

Pray  in  fortunate  days,  for  life's  most  beautiful 
Fortune 

Kneels  down  before  the  Eternal’s  throne;  and, 
with  hands  interfolded. 

Praises  thankful  and  moved  the  only  giver  of  bless- 
ings. 

Or  do  ye  know,  ye  children,  one  blessing  that 
comes  not  from  Heaven  ? 

What  has  mankind  forsooth,  the  poor ! that  it  has 
not  received  ? 

Therefore,  fall  in  the  dust  and  pray ! The  seraphs 
adoring 

Cover  with  pinions  six  their  face  in  the  glory  of 
him  who 

Hung  his  masonry  pendant  on  naught,  when  the 
world  he  created. 

Earth  declare th  his  might,  and  the  firmament  ut- 
tereth  his  glory. 

Races  blossom  and  die,  and  stars  fall  downward 
from  heaven, 

Downward  like  withered  leaves  ; at  the  last  stroke 
of  midnight,  millenniums 

Lay  themselves  down  at  his  feet,  and  he  sees  them, 
but  counts  them  as  nothing. 

Who  shall  stand  in  his  presence  ? The  wrath  of 
the  judge  is  terrific. 

Casting  the  insolent  down  at  a glance.  When  he 
speaks  in  his  anger 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER.  115 


Hillocks  skip  like  the  kid,  and  mountains  leap  like 
the  roe-buck. 

Yet, — why  are  ye  afraid,  ye  children  ? This  awful 
avenger. 

Ah ! is  a merciful  God  ! God’s  voice  was  not  in 
the  earthquake. 

Not  in  the  fire,  nor  the  storm,  but  it  was  in  the 
whispering  breezes. 

Love  is  the  root  of  creation  ; God’s  essence ; worlds 
without  number 

Lie  in  his  bosom  like  children ; he  made  them  for 
this  purpose  only. 

Only  to  love  and  to  be  loved  again,  he  breathed 
forth  his  spirit 

Into  the  slumbering  dust,  and  upright  standing,  it 
laid  its 

Hand  on  its  heart,  and  felt  it  was  warm  with  a 
flame  out  of  heaven. 

Quench,  O quench  not  that  flame  ! It  is  the  breath 
of  your  being. 

Love  is  life,  but  hatred  is  death.  Not  father,  nor 
mother 

Loved  you,  as  God  has  loved  you ; for ’t  was  that 
you  may  be  happy 

Gave  he  his  only  son.  When  he  bowed  down  his 
head  in  the  death-hour 

Solemnized  Love  its  triumph ; the  sacrifice  then 
was  completed. 

Lo!  then  was  rent  on  a sudden  the  vail  of  the 
temple,  dividing 

Earth  and  heaven  apart,  and  the  dead  from  their 
sepulchres  rising 

Whispered  with  pallid  lips  and  low  in  the  ears  of 
each  other 

Th’  answer,  but  dreamed  of  before,  to  creation’s 
enigma, — Atonement ! 

Depths  of  Love  are  Atonement’s  depths,  for  Love 
is  Atonement. 


116 


BALLADS  AND  0THP:R  POEMS. 


Therefore,  child  of  mortality,  love  thou  the  merci- 
ful Father; 

Wish  what  the  Holy  One  wishes,  and  not  from 
fear,  but  affection ; 

Fear  is  the  virtue  of  slaves;  but  the  heart  that 
loveth  is  willing ; 

Perfect  was  before  God,  and  perfect  is  Love,  and 
Love  only. 

Lovest  thou  God  as  thou  oughtest,  then  lovest 
thou  likewise  thy  brethren  ; 

One  is  the  sun  in  heaven,  and  one,  only  one,  is 
Love  also. 

Bears  not  each  human  figure  the  godlike  stamp  on 
his  forehead  ? 

Readest  thou  not  in  his  face  thine  origin  ? Is  he 
not  sailing 

Lost  like  thyself  on  an  ocean  unknown,  and  is  he 
not  guided 

By  the  same  stars  that  guide  thee  ? Why  shouldst 
thou  hate  then  thy  brother  ? 

Hateth  he  thee,  forgive ! For ’t  is  sweet  to  stam- 
mer one  letter 

Of  the  Eternal’s  language  ; — on  earth  it  is  called 
Forgiveness ! 

Knowest  thou  Him,  who  forgave,  with  the  crown 
of  thorns  round  his  temples  ? 

Earnestly  pra}  ed  for  his  foes,  for  his  murderers  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  know  him  ? 

Ah ! thou  confessest  his  name,  so  follow  likewise 
his  example, 

Think  of  thy  brother  no  ill,  but  throw  a veil  over 
his  failings, 

Guide  the  erring  aright ; for  the  good,  the  heav- 
enly shepherd 

Took  the  lost  lamb  in  his  arms,  and  bore  it  back  to 
its  mother. 

This  is  the  fruit  of  Love,  and  it  is  by  its  fruits  that 
we  know  it. 

Love  is  the  creature’s  welfare,  with  God ; but  Love 
among  mortals 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’s  8URPER.  117 

Is  but  an  endless  si^rb ! He  longs,  and  endures, 
and  stands  waiting, 

Suffers  and  yet  rejoices,  and  smiles  with  tears  on 
his  eyelids. 

Hope, — so  is  called  upon  earth,  his  recompense, — 
Hope,  the  befriending, 

Does  what  she  can,  for  she  points  evermore  up  to 
heaven,  and  faithful 

Plunges  her  anchor^s  peak  in  the  depths  of  the 
grave,  and  beneath  It 

Paints  a more  beautiful  world,  a dim,  but  a sweet 
play  of  shadows  ! 

Races,  better  than  we,  have  leaned  on  her  waver- 
ing  promise. 

Having  naught  else  but  Hope.  Then  praise  we 
our  Father  in  heaven,  * 

Him,  who  has  given  us  more ; for  to  us  has  Hope 
been  transfigured. 

Groping  no  longer  in  night;  she  is  Faith,  she  is 
living  assurance. 

Faith  is  enlightened  Hope ; she  is  light,  is  the  eye 
of  affection. 

Dreams  of  the  longing  interprets,  and  carves  their 
visions  in  marble. 

Faith  is  the  sun  of  life;  and  her  countenance 
shines  like  the  Hebrew’s, 

F or  she  has  looked  upon  God ; the  heaven  on  its 
stable  foundation 

Draws  she  with  chains  down  to  earth,  and  the  New 
Jerusalem  sinketh 

Splendid  with  portals  twelve  in  golden  vapors  de- 
scending. 

There  enraptured  she  wanders,  and  looks  at  the 
figures  majestic, 

Fears  not  the  winged  crowd,  in  the  midst  of  them 
all  is  her  homestead. 

Therefore  love  and  believe ; for  works  will  follow 
spontaneous 

Even  as  day  does  the  sun  ; the  Right  from  the 
Good  is  an  offspring. 


118 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Love  in  a bodily  shape ; and  Christian  works  are 
no  more  than 

Animate  Love  and  faith,  as  flowers  are  the  ani- 
mate spring-tide. 

Works  do  follow  us  all  unto  God ; there  stand  and 
bear  witness 

Not  what  they  seemed, — but  what  they  were  only. 
Blessed  is  he  who 

Hears  their  confession  secure ; they  are  mute  upon 
earth  until  death’s  hand 

Opens  the  mouth  of  the  silent.  Ye  children,  does 
Death  e’er  alarm  you  ? 

Death  is  the  brother  of  Love,  twin-brother  is  he, 
and  is  only 

More  austere  to  behold.  With  a kiss  upon  lips  that 
are  fading 

Takes  he  the  soul  and  departs,  and  rocked  in  the 
arms  of  affection, 

Places  the  ransomed  child,  new  born,  ’fore  the  face 
of  its  father. 

Sounds  of  his  coming  already  I hear, — see  dimly 
his  pinions. 

Swart  as  the  night,  but  with  stars  strewn  upon 
them  ! I fear  not  before  him. 

Death  is  only  release,  and  in  mercy  is  mute.  On 
his  bosom 

Freer  breathes,  in  its  coolness,  my  breast;  and 
face  to  face  standing 

Look  I on  God  as  he  is,  a sun  unpolluted  by 
vapors ; 

Look  on  the  light  of  the  ages  I loved,  the  spirits 
majestic. 

Nobler,  better  than  I ; they  stand  by  the  throne  all 
transfigured. 

Vested  in  white,  and  with  harps  of  gold,  and  are 
singing  an  anthem. 

Writ  in  the  climate  of  heaven,  in  the  language 
spoken  by  angels. 

You,  in  like  manner,  ye  children  beloved,  he  one 
day  shall  gather. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER.  119 

Never  forgets  he  the  weary; — then  welcome,  ye 
loved  ones,  hereafter ! 

Meanwhile  forget  not  the  keeping  of  vows,  forget 
not  the  promise. 

Wander  from  holiness  onward  to  holiness;  earth 
shall  ye  heed  not ; 

Earth  is  but  dust  and  heaven  is  light ; I have 
pledged  you  to  heaven. 

God  of  the  Universe,  hear  me ! thou  fountain  of 
Love  everlasting. 

Hark  to  the  voice  of  thy  servant ! I send  up  my 
prayer  to  thy  heaven  ! 

Let  me  hereafter  not  miss  at  thy  throne  one  spirit 
of  all  these. 

Whom  thou  hast  given  me  here ! I have  loved 
them  all  like  a father. 

May  they  bear  witness  for  me,  that  I taught  them 
the  way  of  salvation. 

Faithful,  so  far  as  I knew  of  thy  word;  again  may 
they  know  me. 

Fall  on  their  Teacher’s  breast,  and  before  thy  face 
may  I place  them, 

Pure  as  they  now  are,  but  only  more  tried,  and 
exclaiming  with  gladness, 

Father,  lo!  I am  here,  and  the  children,  whom 
thou  hast  given  me  ! ” 

Weeping  he  spake  in  these  words;  and  now  at 
the  beck  of  the  old  man 

Knee  against  knee  they  knitted  a wreath  round  the 
altar’s  enclosure. 

Kneeling  he  read  then  the  prayers  of  the  conse- 
cration, and  softly 

With  him  the  children  read ; at.  the  close,  with 
tremulous  accents, 

Asked  he  the  peace  of  heaven,  a benediction  Tipon 
them. 

Now  should  have  ended  his  task  for  the  day ; the 
following  Sunday 


120 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POKJMo. 


Was  for  tlio  youn"  appointed  to  eat  of  the  Lord’s 
holy  Supper. 

Sudden,  as  struek  from  the  clouds,  stood  the 
Teacher  silent  and  laid  his 

Hand  on  his  forehead,  and  cast  his  looks  upward; 
while  thoughts  high  and  holy 

Flew  through  the  midst  of  his  soul,  and  his  eyes 
glaueed  with  wonderful  brightness. 

On  tile  next  Sunday,  who  knows ! perhaps  I 
shall  rest  in  the  grave-yard  ! 

Some  one  perhaps  of  yourselves,  a lily  broken 
untimely, 

Bow  down  his  head  to  the  earth ; why  delay  I ? 
the  hour  is  accomplished. 

Warm  is  the  heart ; — I will  so ! for  to-day  grows 
the  harvest  of  heaven. 

What  I began  accomplish  I now ; for  what  failing 
therein  is 

I,  the  old  man,  will  answer  to  God  and  the  rev- 
erend father. 

Say  to  me  only,  ye  children,  ye  denizens  new-come 
in  heaven. 

Are  ye  ready  this  day  to  eat  of  the  bread  of  Atone- 
ment ? 

What  it  denoteth,  that  know  ye  full  well,  I have 
told  it  you  often. 

Of  the  new  covenant  a symbol  it  is,  of  Atonement 
a token, 

Stablished  between  earth  and  heaven.  Man  by 
his  sins  and  transgressions 

Far  has  wandered  from  God,  from  his  essemie. 
’T  was  in  the  beginning 

Fast  by  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  he  fell,  and  it 
hangs  its  crown  o’er  the 

Fall  to  this  (1  ly  ; in  the  Thought  is  the  Fall ; in 
the  Heart  the  Atonement. 

Infinite  is  the  Fall,  the  Atonement  infinite  like- 
wise. 

See  ! behind  me,  as  far  as  the  old  man  remembers, 
and  forward. 


CHILDREN’ OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER.  121 

Far  as  Hope  in  her  flight  can  reach  with  her 
wearied  pinions, 

Sin  and  Atonement  incessant  go  through  the  life- 
time of  mortals. 

Brought  forth  is  sin  full-grown ; but  Atonement 
sleeps  in  our  bosoms 

Still  as  the  cradled  babe ; and  dreams  of  heaven 
and  of  angels. 

Cannot  awake  to  sensation ; is  like  the  tones  in  the 
harp’s  strings, 

Spirits  imprisoned,  that  wait  evermore  the  deliv- 
erer’s finger. 

Therefore,  ye  children  beloved,  descended  the 
Prince  of  Atonement, 

Woke  the  slumberer  from  sleep,  and  she  stands 
now  with  eyes  all  resplendent. 

Bright  as  the  vault  of  the  sky,  and  battles  with  Sin 
and  o’ercomes  her. 

Downward  to  earth  he  came  and  transfigured, 
thence  reascended, 

Not  from  the  heart  in  like  wise,  for  there  he  still 
lives  in  the  Spirit, 

Loves  and  atones  evermore.  So  long  as  Time  is, 
is  Atonement. 

Therefore  with  reverence  receive  this  day  her 
visible  token. 

Tokens  are  dead  if  the  things  do  not  live.  The 
light  everlasting 

Unto  the  blind  man  is  not,  but  is  born  of  the  eye 
that  has  vision. 

Neither  in  bread  nor  in  wine,  but  in  the  heart  that 
is  hallowed 

Lieth  forgiveness  enshrined  ; the  intention  alone  of 
amendment 

Fruits  of  the  earth  ennobles  to  heavenly  things, 
and  removes  all 

Sin  and  the  guerdon  of  sin.  Only  Love  with  his 
arms  wide  extended, 

Penitence  weeping  and  praying;  the  Will  that  is 
tried,  and  whose  gold  flows 


122 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Purified  forth  from  the  flames ; in  a word,  mankind 
by  Atonement 

Breaketh  Atonement’s  bread,  and  drinketh  Atone- 
ment’s wine-cup. 

But  he  who  cometh  up  hither,  unworthy,  with  hate 
in  his  bosom. 

Scoffing  at  men  and  at  God,  is  guilty  of  Christ’s 
blessed  body. 

And  the  Redeemer’s  blood ! To  himself  he  eateth 
and  drinketh 

Death  and  doom ! And  from  this,  preserve  us, 
thou  heavenly  F ather ! 

Are  ye  ready,  ye  .children,  to  eat  of  the  bread  of 
Atonement?  ” 

Thus  with  emotion  he  asked,  and  together  an- 
swered the  children 

Yes ! with  deep  sobs  interrupted.  Then  read  he 
the  due  supplications, 

Read  the  Form  of  Communion,  and  in  chimed  the 
organ  and  anthem; 

O ! Holy  Lamb  of  God,  who  takest  away  our  trans- 
gressions. 

Hear  us ! give  us  thy  peace ! have  mercy,  have 
mercy  upon  us  ! 

Th’  old  man,  with  trembling  hand,  and  heavenly 
pearls  on  his  eyelids. 

Filled  now  the  chalice  and  paten,  and  dealt  round 
the  mystical  symbols. 

O ! then  seemed  it  to  me,  as  if  God,  with  the  broad 
eye  of  mid-day, 

Clearer  looked  in  at  the  windows,  and  all  the  trees 
in  the  churchyard 

Bowed-  down  their  summits  of  green,  and  the  grass 
on  the  graves  ’gan  to  shiver. 

But  in  the  children,  (I  noted  it  well ; I knew  it) 
there  ran  a 

Tremor  of  holy  rapture  along  through  tlieir  icy-cold 
members. 

Decked  like  an  altar  before  them,  there  stood  the 
green  eartli,  and  above  it 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  LORD’S  SUPPER.  123 

Heaven  opened  itself,  as  of  old  before  Stephen ; 
they  saw  there 

Radiant  in  o'lory  the  Father,  and  on  his  right  hand 
the  Redeemer. 

Under  them  hear  they  the  clang  of  harpstrings, 
and  angels  from  gold  clouds 

Beckon  to  them  like  brothers,  and  fan  with  their 
pinions  of  purple. 

Closed  was  the  Teacher’s  task,  and  with  heaven 
in  their  hearts  and  their  faces. 

Up  rose  the  children  all,  and  each  bowed  him, 
weeping  full  sorely. 

Downward  to  kiss  that  reverend  hand,  but  all  of 
them  pressed  he 

Moved  to  his  bosom,  and  laid,  with  a prayer,  his 
hands  full  of  blessings. 

Now  on  the  holy  breast,  and  now  on  the  innocent 
tresses. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 


Under  a spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands ; 

The  smith,  a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long, 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat, 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can. 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night. 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; . 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow. 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell. 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coming  home  from  school 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge. 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 

(127) 


t28 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice, 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  hke  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise  ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more. 
How  m the  grave  she  lies ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toil  i n g, — rej  oici  ng, — sorrow!  ng. 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin. 

Each  evening  sees  it  close  ; 

Something  attempted,  something  done. 

Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought  I 


ENDYmON. 

The  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars ; 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 

Lie  on  the  landscape  green. 
With  shadows  brown  between. 

And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams. 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 
Upon  the  meadows  low. 


ENDYMION. 


129 


On  such  a tranquil  night  as  this, 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian’s  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 

Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought ; 

Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes, — the  beautiful,  the  free, 

The  crown  of  all  humanity, — 

In  silence  and  alone 
To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep, 

Are  Life’s  oblivion,  the  soul’s  sleep. 

And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him,  who  slumbering  lies. 

O,  weary  hearts  ! O,  slumbering  eyes  ! 

O,  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 
Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain. 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 

No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown. 
Responds  unto  his  own. 

Responds, — as  if  with  unseen  wings. 

An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 

“ Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long  ! ' 


VOL.  I. 


9 


180 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  TWO  LOCKS  OF  HAIR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  PFIZER. 

A YOUTH,  light-hearted  and  content, 

I wander  through  the  world  ; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent 
And  straight  again  is  furled. 

Yet  oft  I dream,  that  once  a wife 
Close  in  my  heart  was  locked, 

And  in  the  sweet  repose  of  life 
A blessed  child  I rocked. 

I wake  ! Away  that  dream, — away  ! 

Too  long  did  it  remain  ! 

So  long,  that  both  by  night  and  day 
It  ever  comes  again. 

The  end  lies  ever  in  my  thought ; 

To  a grave  so  cold  and  deep 
The  mother  beautiful  was  brought ; 

Then  dropt  the  child  asleep. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o’er, 

I bathe  mine  eyes  and  see ; 

And  wander  through  the  world  once  more, 
A youth  so  light  and  free. 

Two  locks, — and  they  are  wondrous  fair, — 
Left  me  that  vision  mild ; 

The  brown  is  from  the  mother’s  hair. 

The  blond  is  from  the  child. 

And  when  I see  that  lock  of  gold. 

Pale  grows  the  evening-red ; 

And  when  the  dark  lock  I behold, 

I wish  that  I were  dead. 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 


VU 


IT  IS  NOT  ALWAYS  MAY. 

NO  HAY  PAJAROS  EN  LOS  NIDOS  OE  ANTANO. 

Spaniah  Proi'erb, 

The  sun  is  bright, — the  air  is  clear, 

The  darting  swallows  soar  and  sing, 

And  from  the  stately  elms  I hear 
The  blue-bird  prophesying  Spring. 

So  blue  yon  winding  river  flows. 

It  seems  an  outlet  from  the  sky, 

Where  waiting  till  the  west  wind  blows. 

The  freighted  clouds  at  anchor  lie. 

All  things  are  new ; — the  buds,  the  leaves. 
That  gild  the  elm-tree’s  nodding  crest. 

And  even  the  nest  beneath  the  eaves ; — 
There  are  no  birds  in  last  year’s  nest ! 

All  things  rejoice  in  youth  and  love. 

The  fulness  of  their  first  delight ! 

And  learn  from  the  soft  heavens  above 
The  melting  tenderness  of  night. 

Maiden,  that  read’st  this  simple  rhyme. 

Enjoy  thy  youth,  it  will  not  stay  ; 

Enjoy  the  fragrance  of  thy  prime. 

For  O ! it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Enjoy  the  Spring  of  Love  and  Youth, 

To  some  good  angel  leave  the  rest ; 

For  Time  will  teach  thee  soon  the  truth. 

There  are  no  birds  in  last  year’s  nest ! 


132 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  RAINY  DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 

And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 

It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary ; 

My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart ! and  cease  repining  ; 

Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining ; 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all. 

Into  ea(di  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 


GOD’S-ACRE. 

I LIKE  that  ancient  Saxon  phrase,  which  calls 
The  burial-ground  God’s-Acre  ! It  is  just ; 

It  consecrates  each  grave  within  its  walls. 

And  breathes  a benison  o’er  the  sleeping  dust. 

God’s-Acre  ! Yes,  that  blessed  name  imparts 
Comfort  to  those,  who  in  the  grave  have  sown 

The  seed,  that  they  had  garnered  in  their  hearts, 
Their  bread  of  life,  alas  ! no  more  their  own. 

Into  its  furrows  shall  we  all  be  cast. 

In  the  sure  faith,  that  we  shall  rise  again 

At  the  great  harvest,  when  the  arch-angel’s  blast 
Shall  winnow,  like  a fan,  the  chaff  and  grain. 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 


133 


Then  shall  the  good  stand  in  immortal  bloom, 

In  the  fair  gardens  of  that  second  birth  ; 

And  each  bright  blossom,  mingle  its  perfume 
With  that  of  flowers,  which  never  bloomed  on 
earth. 

With  thy  rude  ploughshare.  Death,  turn  up  the  sod, 
And  spread  the  furrow  for  the  seed  we  sow ; 
This  is  the  field  and  Acre  of  our  God, 

This  is  the  place,  where  human  harvests  grow  ! 


TO  THE  RIVER  CHARLES. 

River  ! that  in  silence  windest 

Through  the  meadows,  bright  and  free, 
Till  at  length  thy  rest  thou  findest 
In  the  bosom  of  the  sea  ! 

Four  long  years  of  mingled  feeling. 

Half  in  rest,  and  half  in  strife, 

I have  seen  thy  waters  stealing 
Onward,  like  the  stream  of  life. 

Thou  hast  taught  me.  Silent  River ! 

Many  a lesson,  deep  and  long ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver ; 

I can  give  thee  but  a song. 

Oft  in  sadness  and  in  illness, 

I have  watched  thy  current  glide, 

Till  the  beauty  of  its  stillness 
Overflowed  me,  like  a tide. 

And  in  better  hours  and  brighter, 

When  I saw  thy  waters  gleam, 

I have  felt  my  heart  beat  lighter, 

And  leap  onward  with  thy  stream. 


BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Kot  for  this  alone  I love  thee, 

Nor  because,  thy  waves  of  blue 
From  celestial  seas  above  thee 
Take  their  own  celestial  hue. 

Where  yon  shadowy  woodlands  hide  thee, 
And  thy  waters  disappear, 

Friends  I love  have  dwelt  beside  thee, 
And  have  made  thy  margin  dear. 

More  than  this  ; — thy  name  reminds  me 
Of  three  friends,  all  true  and  tried  ; 
And  that  name,  like  magic,  binds  me 
Closer,  closer  to  thy  side. 

Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers  ! 

How  like  quivering  flames  they  start. 
When  I fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart  ! 

’T  is  for  this,  thou  Silent  River ! 

That  my  spirit  leans  to  thee  ; 

Thou  hast  been  a generous  giver, 

Take  this  idle  song  from  me. 


BLIND  BARTIMEUS. 

Blind  Bartimus  at  the  gates 
Of  Jericho  in  darkness  waits  ; 

He  hears  the  crowd  ; — he  hears  a breath 
Say,  “ It  is  Christ  of  Nazareth  ! ” 

And  calls,  in  tones  of  agony, 

’Ir/(Toi),  iTiirjaov  fie! 

The  thronging  multitudes  increase  ; 
Blind  Bartimeus,  hold  thy  peace  ! 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 


135 


But  still,  above  the  noisy  crowd, 

The  beggar’s  cry  is  shrill  and  loud  ; 

Until  they  say,  “ He  calleth  thee  ! ” 

Qapaet,  eyeipai^  (pcovel  ael 

Then  saith  the  Christ,  as  silent  stands 
The  crowd,  “ What  wilt  thou  at  my  hands  ? ” 
And  he  replies,  “ O give  me  light ! 

Rabbi,  restore  the  blind  man’s  sight ! ” 

And  Jesus  answers,  'TTraye* 

' H moTig  GOV  aiatoKe  ae  ! 

Ye  that  have  eyes,  yet  cannot  see, 

In  darkness  and  in  misery. 

Recall  those  mighty  Voices  Three, 

’ IriGOv,  eM?/G6v  pe  ! 

QdpGet,  eyeipai^  vizaye  ! 

' H niang  gov  geguke  ge  I 


THE  GOBLET  OF  LIFE. 

Filled  is  Life’s  goblet  to  the  brim ; 

And  though  my  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 
I see  its  sparkling  bubbles  swim. 

And  chaunt  a melancholy  hymn 
With  solemn  voice  and  slow. 

No  purple  flowers, — no  garlands  green. 
Conceal  the  goblet’s  shade  or  sheen. 

Nor  maddening  draughts  of  Hippocrene, 
Like  gleams  of  sunshine,  flash  between 
Thick  leaves  of  misletoe. 

This  goblet,  wrought  with  curious  art. 

Is  filled  with  waters,  that  upstart, 

When  the  deep  fountains  of  the  heart, 


BALLADS  AXD  OTHER  POEMS. 


By  strong  convulsions  rent  apart, 

Are  running  all  to  waste.. 

And  as  it  mantling  passes  round, 

With  fennel  is  it  wreathed  and  crowned, 
Whose  seed  and  foliage  sun-iinbrowned 
Are  In  its  waters  steeped  and  drowned. 
And  give  a bitter  taste. 

Above  the  lowly  plants  it  towers. 

The  fennel,  with  its  yellow  flowers. 

And  in  an  earlier  age  than  ours 
Was  gifted  with  the  wondrous  powers. 
Lost  vision  to  restore. 

It  gave  new  strength,  and  fearless  mood ; 
And  gladiators,  fierce  and  rude. 

Mingled  it  In  their  daily  food ; 

And  he  who  battled  and  subdued, 

A wreath  of  fennel  wore. 

Then  in  Life's  goblet  freely  press. 

The  leaves  that  give  it  bitterness, 

Nor  prize  the  colored  waters  less. 

For  in  thy  darkness  and  distress 

New  light  and  strength  they  give  ! 

And  he  who  has  not  learned  to  know 
How  false  its  sparkling  bubbles  show. 

How  bitter  are  the  drops  of  woe. 

With  which  its  brim  may  overflow. 

He  has  not  learned  to  live. 

The  prayer  of  Ajax  was  for  light ; 
Through  all  that  dark  and  desperate  fight, 
The  blackness  of  that  noonday  night. 

He  asked  but  the  return  of  sight. 

To  see  his  foeman's  face. 


MAIDENHOOD. 


137 


Let  our  unceasing,  earnest  prayer 
Be,  too,  for  light, — for  strength  to  bear 
Our  portion  of  the  weight  of  care, 

That  crushes  into  dumb  despair 
One  half  the  human  race. 

0 suffering,  sad  humanity ! 

0‘ye  afflicted  ones,  who  lie 
Steeped  to  the  lips  in  miser}% 

Longing,  and  yet  afraid  to  die. 

Patient,  though  sorely  tried ! 

1 pledge  you  in  this  cup  of  grief. 

Where  floats  the  fennel’s  bitter  leaf, 

The  Battle  of  our  Life  is  brief, 

The  alarm, — the  struggle, — the  relief, — 
Then  sleep  we  side  by  side 


MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden  ! with  the  meek,  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a shadow  lies 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies ! 

Thou  whose  locks  outshine  the  sun, 
Golden  tresses,  wreathed  in  one, 

As  the  braided  streamlets  run  ! 

Standing,  with  reluctant  feet. 

Where  the  brook  and  river  meet. 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet! 

Gazing,  with  a timid  glance. 

On  the  brooklet’s  swift  advance. 

On  the  river’s  broad  expanse  1 


BALLADS  AND  OTIIEll  POEMS. 


Deep  and  still,  that  gliding  vstream 
Beautiful  to  thee  must  seem, 

As  the  river  of  a dream. 

Then  why  pause  with  indecision, 

Wlien  bright  angels  in  thy  vision 
Beckon  thee  to  fields  Elysian  ? 

Seest  thou  shadows  sailing  by. 

As  the  dove,  with  startled  eye, 

Sees  the  falcon’s  shadow  fly  ? 

Hearest  thou  voices  on  the  shore. 

That  our  ears  perceive  no  more. 

Deafen e'd  by  the  cataract’s  roar  ? 

O,  thou  child  of  many  prayers ! 

Life  hath  quicksands, — Life  hath  snares 
Care  and  age  come  unawares  ! 

Like  the  swell  of  some  sweet  tune, 
Morning  rises  into  noon. 

May  glides  onward  into  eTune. 

Childhood  is  the  bough,  where  slumbered 
Birds  and  blossoms  many-numbered  ; — 
Age,  that  bough  with  snows  encumbered. 

Gather,  then,  each  flower  that  grows. 
When  the  young  heart  overflows, 

To  embalm  that  tent  of  snows. 

Bear  a lily  in  thy  hand ; 

Gates  of  brass  cannot  withstand 
One  touch  of  that  magic  wand. 

Bear  through  sorrow,  wrong,  and  ruth. 

In  thy  heart  the  dew  of  youth, 
f)n  thy  lips  the  smile  of  truth. 


EXCELSIOR. 


139 


O,  that  dew,  like  balm,  shall  steal 
Into  wounds,  that  cannot  heal, 
Even  as  sleep  our  eyes  doth  seal ; 

And  that  smile,  like  sunshine,  dart 
Into  many  a sunless  heart. 

For  a smile  of  God  thou  art. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 

As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A youth,  who  bore,  ’mid  snow  and  ice, 

A banner  with  the  strange  device. 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad ; his  eye  beneath. 
Flashed  like  a faulchion  from  its  sheath, 
And  like  a silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue. 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  andjbright; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone. 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

“ Try  not  the  Pass ! ” the  old  man  said  ; 

‘‘  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead. 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  1 ” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied. 
Excelsior ! 

“ O stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “ and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upc3n  this  breast ! ” 


140  BALLADS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 

But  still  he  answered,  with  a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

“ Beware  the  pine-tree’s  withered  branch ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  ! ” 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  Good-night, 

A voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A voice  cried  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found. 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray. 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A voice  fell,  like  a falling  star, 

Excelsior ! 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


[The  following  poems,  with  one  exception,  were  written  at  sea, 
in  the  latter  part  of  October.  I had  not  then  heard  of  Dr. 
Channing’s  death.  Since  that  event,  the  poem  addressed  to 
him  is  no  longer  appropriate  I have  decided,  however,  to 
let  it  remain  as  it  was  written,  a feeble  testimony  of  my  admi- 
ration for  a great  and  good  man.] 


TO  WILLIAM  E.  CHANNING. 


The  pages  of  thy  book  I read, 

And  as  I closed  each  one, 

My  heart,  responding,  ever  said, 

“ Servant  of  God ! well  done ! ” 

Well  done  ! Thy  words  are  great  and  bold  ; 

At  times  they  seem  to  me. 

Like  Luther's,  in  the  days  of  old, 
Half-battles  for  the  free. 

Go  on,  until  this  land  revokes 
The  old  and  chartered  Lie, 

The  feudal  curse,  whose  whips  and  yokes 
Insult  humanity. 

A voice  is  ever  at  thy  side 
Speaking  in  tones  of  might. 

Like  the  prophetic  voice,  that  cried 
To  John  in  Patmos,  “ Write  ! " 

Write  ! and  tell  out  this  bloody  tale  ; 

Record  this  dire  eclipse. 

This  Day  of  Wrath,  this  Endless  Wail, 

This  dread  Apocalypse  I 


144 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


THE  SLAVE’S  DREAM. 

Beside  the  ungatliered  rice  he  lay, 

His  sickle  in  his  hand ; 

His  breast  was  bare,  his  matted  hair 
Was  buried  in  the  sand. 

Again,  in  the  mist  and  shadow  of  sleep. 

He  saw  his  Native  Land. 

Wide  through  the  landscape  of  his  dreams 
The  lordly  Niger  flowed ; 

Beneath  the  palm-trees  on  the  plain 
Once  more  a king  he  strode  ; 

And  heard  the  tinkling  caravans 
Descend  the  mountain-road. 

He  saw  once  more  his  dark-eyed  queen 
Among  her  children  stand; 

They  clasped  his  neck,  they  kissed  his  cheeks, 
They  held  him  by  the  hand ! — 

A tear  burst  from  the  sleeper’s  lids 
And  fell  into  the  sand. 

And  then  at  furious  speed  he  rode 
Along  the  Niger’s  bank ; 

His  bridle-reins  were  golden  chains. 

And,  with  a martial  clank, 

At  each  leap  he  could  feel  his  scabbard  of  steel 
Smiting  his  stallion’s  flank. 

Before  him,  like  a blood-red  flag. 

The  bright  flamingoes  flew ; 

From  morn  till  night  he  followed  their  flight, 
O’er  plains  where  the  tamarind  grew. 

Till  he  saw  the  roofs  of  Caffre  huts. 

And  the  ocean  rose  to  view. 


THE  GOOD  PART. 


145 


At  niglit  lie  heard  the  lion  roar, 

And  the  hyaena  scream, 

And  the  river-horse,  as  he  crushed  the  reeds 
Beside  some  hidden  stream; 

And  it  passed,  like  a glorious  roll  of  drums, 
Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream. 

The  forests,  with  their  myriad  tongues. 
Shouted  of  liberty ; 

And  the  Blast  of  the  Desert  cried  aloud. 
With  a voice  so  wild  and  free, 

That  he  started  in  his  sleep  and  smiled 
At  their  tempestuous  glee. 

He  did  not  feel  the  driver’s  whip. 

Nor  the  burning  heat  of  day  ; 

For  Death  had  Illumined  the  Land  of  Sleep, 
And  his  lifeless  body  lay 

A worn-out  fetter,  that  the  soul 
Had  broken  and  thrown  away ! 


THE  GOOD  PART, 

THAT  SHALL  NOT  BE  TAKEN  AWAY. 

/ 

She  dwells  by  Great  Kenhawa’s  side, 
In  valleys  green  and  cool ; 

And  all  her  hope  and  all  her  pride 
Are  in  the  village  school. 

Her  soul,  like  the  transparent  air 
That  robes  the  hills  above. 

Though  not  of  earth,  encircles  there 
All  things  with  arms  of  love. 

VOL.  I.  10 


146 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


And  thus  she  walks  among  her  girls 
With  praise  and  mild  rebukes; 

Subduing  e’en  rude  village  churls 
By  her  angelic  looks. 

She  reads  to  them  at  eventide 
Of  One  who  came  to  save ; 

To  cast  the  captive’s  chains  aside, 
And  liberate  the  slave. 

And  oft  the  blessed  time  foretells 
When  all  men  shall  be  free ; 

And  musical,  as  silver  bells, 

Their  falling  chains  shall  be. 

And  following  her  beloved  Lord, 

In  decent  poverty. 

She  makes  her  life  one  sweet  record 
And  deed  of  charity. 

For  she  was  rich,  and  gave  up  all 
To  break  the  iron  bands 

Of  those  who  waited  in  her  hall. 

And  labored  in  her  lands. 

Long  since  beyond  the  Southern  Sea 
Their  outbound  sails  have  sped. 

While  she,  in  meek  humility. 

Now  earns  her  daily  bread. 

It  is  their  prayers,  which  never  cease. 
That  clothe  her  with  such  grace ; 

Their  blessing  is  the  light  of  peace 
That  shines  upon  her  face. 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMl’.  147 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP 

In  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
The  hunted  Negro  lay  ; 

He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 

And  heard  at  times  a horse’s  tramp 
And  a bloodhound’s  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o’-the-wisps  and  glowworms  shine, 
In  bulrush  and  in  brake ; 

Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 

And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 
Is  spotted  like  the  snake ; 

Where  hardly  a human  foot  could  pass. 

Or  a human  heart  would  dare. 

On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 

He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 
Like  a wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame ; 

Great  scars  deformed  his  face  ; 

On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 

And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 

W ere  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair. 

All  things  were  glad  and  free ; 

Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there. 

And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 
With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

F rom  the  morning  of  his  birth ; 

On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 

Fell,  like  a flail  on  the  garnered  grain. 

And  struck  him  to  the  earth ! 


148 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Loud  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David ! 

He,  a Negro  and  enslaved, 

Sang  of  Israel’s  victory. 

Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free.  ^ 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest. 

Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 

In  a voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I could  not  choose  but  hear. 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions. 

Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 

For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad. 

Sweetly  solemn,  wildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison. 

Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen. 

And  an  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas  ! what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  Slave  this  glad  evangel  V 
And  what  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night  ? 


THE  WITNESSES. 


149 


THE  WITNESSES. 

In  Ocean’s  wide  domains, 

Half  buried  in  the  sands, 

Lie  skeletons  in  chains, 

AVith  shackled  feet  and  hands. 

Beyond  the  fall  of  dews, 

Deeper  than  plummet  lies. 

Float  ships,  with  all  their  crews. 

No  more  to  sink  nor  rise. 

There  the  black  Slave-ship  swims, 
Freighted  with  human  forms, 

AVhose  fettered,  fleshless  limbs 
Are  not  the  sport  of  storms. 

These  are  the  bones  of  Slaves ; 

They  gleam  from  the  abyss ; 

They  cry,  from  yawning  waves, 

“ AVe  are  the  AVitnesses!  ” 

Within  Earth’s  wide  domains 
Are  markets  for  men’s  lives; 

Their  necks  are  galled  with  chains. 
Their  wrists  are  cramped  with  gyves, 

Dead  bodies,  that  the  kite 
In  deserts  makes  its  prey ; 

Murders,  that  with  atfright 

Scare  schoolboys  from  their  play  1 

All  evil  thoughts  and  deeds ; 

Anger,  and  lust,  and  pride ; 

The  foulest,  rankest  weeds. 

That  choke  Life’s  groaning  tide  I 


150 


POEMS  ON  SLAVERY. 


These  are  the  woes  of  Slaves ; 

They  glare  from  the  abyss ; 
They  cry,  from  unknown  graves, 
“We  are  the  Witnesses!” 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 

The  Slaver  in  the  broad  lagoon 
Lay  moored  with  idle  sail ; 

He  waited  for  the  rising  moon. 

And  for  the  evening  gale. 

Under  the  shore  his  boat  was  tied, 
And  all  her  listless  crew 

Watched  the  gray  alligator  slide 
Into  the  still  bayou. 

Odors  of  orange-flowers,  and  spice, 
Reached  them  from  time  to  time. 

Like  airs  that  breathe  from  Paradise 
Upon  a world  of  crime. 

The  Planter,  under  his  roof  of  thatch; 
Smoked  thoughtfully  and  slow; 

The  Slaver’s  thumb  was  on  the  latch, 
He  seemed  in  haste  to  go. 

He  said,  “My  ship  at  anchor  rides 
In  yonder  broad  lagoon  ; 

I only  wait  the  evening  tides. 

And  the  rising  of  the  moon.” 

Before  them,  with  her  face  upraised, 
In  timid  attitude. 

Like  one  half  curious,  half  amazed, 

A Quadroon  maiden  stood. 


THE  QUADROON  GIRL. 


151 


Her  eyes  were  large,  and  full  of  light, 

Her  arms  and  neck  were  bare ; 

No  garment  she  wore  save  a kirtle  bright, 
And  her  own  long,  raven  hair. 

And  on  her  lips  there  played  a smile 
As  holy,  meek,  and  faint. 

As  lights  in  some  cathedral  aisle 
The  features  of  a saint. 

“ The  soil  is  barren, — the  farm  is  old;  ” 

The  thoughtful  Planter  said ; 

Then  looked  upon  the  Slaver’s  gold. 

And  then  upon  the  maid. 

His  heart  within  him  was  at  strife 
With  such  accursed  gains  ; 

For  he  knew  whose  passions  gave  her  life. 
Whose  blood  ran  in  her  veins. 

But  the  voice  of  nature  was  too  weak ; 

He  took  the  glittering  gold  ! 

Then  pale  as  death  grew  the  maiden’s  cheek, 
Her  hands  as  icy  cold. 

The  Slaver  led  her  from  the  door. 

He  led  her  by  the  hand, 

To  be  his  slave  and  paramour 
In  a strange  and  distant  land  ! 


152 


POEMS  ON  SLAYEPvY. 


THE  WARNING. 

Beware  ! The  Israelite  of  old,  who  tore 
The  lion  in  his  path, — when,  poor  and  blind, 

He  saw  the  blessed  light  of  heaven  no  more, 

Shorn  of  his  noble  strength  and  forced  to  grind 
In  prison,  and  at  last  led  forth  to  be 
A pander  to  Philistine  revelry, — 

Upon  the  pillars  of  the  temple  laid 

His  desperate  hands,  and  in  its  overthrow 
Destroyed  himself,  and  with  him  those  who  made 
A cruel  mockery  of  his  sightless  woe ; 

The  poor,  blind  Slave,  the  scoff  and  jest  of  all, 
Expired,  and  thousands  perished  in  the  fall ! 

There  is  a poor,  blind  Samson  in  this  land, 

Shorn  of  his  strength,  and  bound  in  bonds  of 
steel. 

Who  may,  in  some  grim  revel,  raise  his  hand, 

And  shake  the  pillars  of  this  Commonweal, 

Till  the  vast  Temple  of  our  liberties 
A shapeless  mass  of  wreck  and  rubbish  lies. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT, 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 




sssssr  ‘•“‘i 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

A Cardinal. 

Beltran  Cruzado, Count  of  the  Gipsies. 

Bartolomk  Roman, A young  Glpsy^ 

The  Padre  Cura  of  Guadarrama. 

Pedro  Crespo, Alcalde. 

P ANCHO, Alguacil. 

Francisco, Lara's  Sei'vant. 

Chispa, Victorian's  Servant. 

Baltasar, Innkeeper. 

Preciosa, A Gipsy  Girl. 

Angelica, A poor  Girl. 

Martina, . . The  Padre  Cura's  Niece. 

Dolores, Preciosa' s Maid. 

Gipsies,  Musicians^  <^c. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 

ACT  I. 

Scene  1.  The  Count  of  Lara’s  chambers.  Night. 
The  Count  in  his  dressing-gown^  smoking  and  conversing 
with  Don  Carlos. 

Lara.  You  were  not  at  the  play  to-night,  Don 
Carlos ; 

How  happened  it  ? 

Carlos.  I had  engagements  elsewhere. 

Pray  who  was  there  ? 

Lara.  Why,  all  the  town  and  court. 

The  house  was  crowded ; and  the  busy  fans 
Among  the  gayly  dressed  and  perfumed  ladies 
Fluttered  like  butterflies  among  the  flowers. 

There  was  the  Countess  of  Medina  Celi ; 

The  Goblin  Lady  with  her  Phantom  Lover, 

Her  Lindo  Don  Diego ; Dona  Sol, 

And  Dona  Serafina,  and  her  cousins. 

Carlos.  What  was  the  play  ? 

Lara.  It  was  a dull  affair  ; 

One  of  those  comedies  in  which  you  see. 

As  Lope  says,  the  history  of  the  world 
Brought  down  from  Genesis  to  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment. 

There  were  three  duels  fought  in  the  first  act. 
Three  gentlemen  receiving  deadly  wounds, 

Laying  their  hands  upon  their  hearts,  and  saying, 

“ O,  I am  dead  ! ” a lover  in  a closet, 


156 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


An  old  hidalgo,  and  a gay  Don  Juan, 

A Dona  Inez  with  a black  mantilla. 

Followed  at  twilight  by  an  unknown  lover. 

Who  looks  intently  where  he  knows  she  is  not ! 
Carlos.  Of  course,  the  Preciosa  danced  to- 
night ? 

Lara.  And  never  better.  Every  footstep  fell 
As  lightly  as  a sunbeam  on  the  water. 

I think  the  girl  extremely  beautiful. 

Carlos.  Almost  beyond  the  privilege  of  woman  1 
I saw  her  in  the  Prado  yesterday. 

Her  step  was  royal, — queen-like, — and  her  face 
As  beautiful  as  a saint’s  in  Paradise. 

Lara.  May  not  a saint  fall  from  her  Paradise, 
And  be  no  more  a saint  ? 

Carlos.  Why  do  you  ask  ? 

Lara.  Because  I have  heard  it  said  this  angel 
fell. 

And,  though  she  is  a virgin  outwardly. 

Within  she  is  a sinner  ; like  those  panels 
Of  doors  and  altar-pieces  the  old  monks 
Painted  in  convents,  with  the  Virgin  Mary 
On  the  outside,  and  on  the  inside  Venus ! 

Carlos.  You  do  her  wrong ; indeed,  you  do  her 
wrong ! 

She  is  as  virtuous  as  she  is  fair. 

Lara.  How  credulous  you  are  ! Why  look  you, 
friend. 

There ’s  not  a virtuous  woman  in  Madrid, 

In  this  whole  city  ! And  would  you  persuade  me 
That  a mere  dancing-girl,  who  shows  herself. 
Nightly,  half-naked,  on  the  stage,  for  money. 

And  with  voluptuous  motions  fires  the  blood 
Of  inconsiderate  youth,  is  to  be  held 
A model  for  her  virtue  ? 

Carlos.  You  forget 

She  is  a Gipsy  girl. 

Lara.  And  therefore  won 

The  easier. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


157 


Carlos.  Nay,  not  to  be  won  at  all ! 

The  only  virtue  that  a Gipsy  prizes 
Is  chastity.  That  is  her  only  virtue. 

Dearer  than  life  she  holds  it.  1 remember 
A Gipsy  woman,  a vile,  shameless  bawd. 

Whose  craft  was  to  betray  the  young  and  fair ; 

And  yet  this  woman  was  above  all  bribes. 

And  when  a noble  lord,  touched  by  her  beauty. 
The  wild  and  wizard  beauty  of  her  race, 

Olfered  her  gold  to  be  what  she  made  others. 

She  turned  upon  him,  with  a look  of  scorn. 

And  smote  him  in  the  face  ! 

Lara.  And  does  that  prove 

That  Preciosa  is  above  suspicion  ? 

Carlos.  It  proves  a nobleman  may  be  repulsed 
WTien  he  thinks  conquest  easy.  I believe 
That  woman,  in  her  deepest  de«Tadation, 

Holds  something  sacred,  something  undefiled, 

Some  pledge  and  keepsake  of  her  higher  nature. 
And,  like  the  diamond  in  the  dark,  retains 
Some  quenchless  gleam-  of  the  celestial  light ! 

Lara.  Yet  Preciosa  would  have  taken  the  gold. 
Carlos  [rising'].  I do  not  think  so. 

Lara.  I am  sure  of  it. 

Hut  why  this  haste  ? Stay  yet  a little  longer. 

And  fight  the  battles  of  your  Dulcinea. 

Carlos.  ’T  is  late.  I must  begone,  for  if  I stay 
You  will  not  be  persuaded. 

Lara.  Yes  ; persuade  me. 

Carlos.  No  one  so  deaf  as  he  who  will  not  hear  ! 
Lara.  No  one  so  blind  as  he  who  will  not  see ! 
Carlos.  And  so  good  night.  I wish  you  pleas- 
ant dreams. 

And  greater  faith  in  woman.  [Exit. 

Lara.  Greater  faith ! 

I have  the  greatest  faith  ; for  I believe 
Victorian  is  her  lover.  I believe 
That  I shall  be  to-morrow ; and  thereafter 
Another,  and  another,  and  another. 


158 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Chasing  each  other  through  her  zodiac, 

As  Taurus  chases  Aries. 

[^Enter  Francisco  vnth  a caskeW] 

Well,  Francisco, 

What  speed  with  Preciosa? 

Fran.  None,  my  lord. 

She  sends  your  jewels  back,  and  bids  me  tell  you 
She  is  not  to  be  purchased  by  your  gold. 

Lara.  Then  I will  try  some  other  way  to  win 
her. 

Pray,  dost  thou  know  Victorian  ? 

Fran.  Yes,  my  lord  ; 

I saw  him  at  the  jeweller’s  to-day. 

Lara.  What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

Fran.  I saw  him  buy 

A golden  ring,  that  had  a ruby  in  it. 

Lara.  Was  there  another  like  it  ? 

Fran.  One  so  like  it 

I could  not  choose  between  them. 

Lara.  It  is  well. 

To-morrow  morning  bring  that  ring  to  me. 

Do  not  forget.  Now  light  me  to  my  bed.  \_Exeunt. 


Scene  II. — A street  in  Madrid.  Enter  Ciai'S>T a.,  followed 
by  musicians.,  with  a bagpipe,  guitars,  and  other  instru- 
ments. 

Chis.  Abernuncio  Satanas ! and  a plague  on 
all  lovers  who  ramble  about  at  night,  drinking  the 
elements,  instead  of  sleeping  quietly  in  their  beds. 
Every  dead  man  to  his  cemetery,  say  I ; and  every 
friar  to  his  monastery.  Now,  here  ’s  my  master, 
Victorian,  yesterday  a cow-keeper,  and  to-day  a 
gentleman ; yesterday  a student,  and  to-day  a 
lover ; and  I must  be  up  later  than  the  nightingale, 
for  as  the  abbot  sings  so  must  the  sacristan  respond. 
God  grant  he  may  soon  be  married,  for  then  shall 
all  this  serenading  cease.  Ay,  marry ! marry ! 
marry ! Mother,  what  does  marry  mean  ? It 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


159 


means  to  spin,  to  bear  children,  and  to  weep,  my 
daughter ! And,  of  a truth,  there  is  something 
more  in  matrimony  than  the  wedding-ring.  \_To 
the  musicians.']  And  now,  gentlemen.  Pax  vobis- 
cum  ! as  the  ass  said  to  the  cabbages.  Pray,  walk 
this  way;  and  don’t  hang  down  your  heads.  Tt  is 
no  disgrace  to  have  an  old  father  and  a ragged 
shirt.  Now,  look  you,  you  are  gentlemen  wlio  lead 
the  life  of  crickets  ; you  enjoy  hunger  by  day  and 
noise  by  night.  Yet,  I beseech  you,  for  this  once 
be  not  loud,  but  pathetic ; for  it  is  a serenade  to  a 
damsel  in  bed,  and  not  to  the  Man  in  the  Moon. 
Your  object  is  not  to  arouse  and  terrify,  but  to 
soothe  and  bring  lulling  dreams.  Therefore,  each 
shall  not  play  upon  his  instrument  as  if  it  were  the 
only  one  in  the  universe,  but  gently,  and  with  a 
certain  modesty,  according  with  the  others.  Pray, 
how  may  I call  thy  name,  friend  ? 

1st  Mus.  Geronimo  Gil,  at  your  service. 

Chis.  Every  tub  smells  of  the  wine  that  is  in 
it.  Pray,  Geronimo,  is  not  Saturday  an  unpleasant 
day  with  thee  V 

Mus.  Why  so? 

Chis.  Because  I have  heard  it  said  that  Sat- 
urday is  an  unpleasant  day  with  those  who  have 
but  one  shirt.  Moreover,  I have  seen  thee  at  the 
tavern,  and  if  thou  canst  run  as  fast  as  thou  canst 
drink,  I should  like  to  hunt  hares  with  thee. 
What  instrument  is  that  ? 

Mus.  An  Aragonese  bagpipe. 

Chis.  Pray,  art  thou  related  to  the  bagpiper 
of  Bujalance,  who  asked  a maravedi  for  playing, 
and  ten  for  leaving  off  ? 

Mus.  No,  your  honor. 

Chis.  I am  glad  of  it.  What  other  instru- 
ments have  we  ? 

2d  and  ^d  Mus.  We  play  the  bandurria. 

Chis.  A pleasing  instrument.  And  thou  ? 

Ath  Mus.  The  fife. 


160 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Chis.  1 like  it ; it  has  a cheerful,  soul-stirring 
sound,  that  soars  up  to  my  lady’s  window  like  the 
song  of  a swallow.  And  you  others  ? 

Other  Mus.  We  are  the  singers,  please  your 
honor. 

Chis.  You  are  too  many.  Do  you  think  we 
are  going  to  sing  mass  in  the  cathedral  of  Cordova? 
Four  men  can  make  but  little  use  of  one  shoe,  and 
I see  not  how  you  can  all  sing  in  one  song.  But 
follow  me  along  the  garden  wall.  That  is  the  way 
my  master  climbs  to  the  lady’s  window.  It  is  by 
the  Yicar’s  skirts  that  the  devil  climbs  into  the 
belfry.  Come,  follow  me,  and  make  no  noise. 

\_ExeunL 

Scene  III. — Preciosa’s  chamber.  She  stands  at  the  open 
window. 

Pre.  How  slowly  through  the  lilac-scented  air 
Descends  the  tranquil  moon  ! Like  thistle-down 
The  vapory  clouds  float  in  the  peaceful  sky  ; 

And  sweetly  from  yon  hollow  vaults  of  shade 
The  nightingales  breathe  out  their  souls  in  song. 
And  hark ! what  songs  of  love,  what  soul-like 
sounds, 

Answer  them  from  below  ! 

SERENADE. 

Stars  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 

Hide,  hide  your  golden  light! 

She  sleeps ! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

Moon  of  the  summer  night! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps, 

Sink,  sink  in  silver  light ! 

She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


161 


Wind  of  the  smnrner  night! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps. 

Fold,  fold  th}^  pinions  light  1 
She  sleeps  1 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  I 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch!  while  in  slumbers  light 
She  sleeps! 

My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps ! 

l^Enter  Victorian  by  the  balcony.] 

VicL  Poor,  little  dove ! Thou  tremblest  like 
a leaf! 

Pre.  I am  so  frightened ! ’T  is  for  thee  T tremble  ! 
I hate  to  have  thee  climb  that  wall  by  night ! 

Did  no  one  see  thee  ? 

Viet.  None,  my  love,  but  thou. 

Pre.  ’T  is  very  dangerous  ; and  when  thou  art 
gone 

I chide  myself  for  letting  thee  come  here 

Thus  stealthily  by  night.  Where  hast  thou  been  ? 

Since  yesterday  I have  no  news  from  thee. 

Viet.  Since  yesterday  I ’ve  been  in  Alcaic. 
Ere  long  the  time  will  come,  sweet  Preciosa, 

When  that  dull  distance  shall  no  more  divide  us, 
And  I no  more  shall  scale  thy  wall  by  night 
To  steal  a kiss  from  thee,  as  I do  now. 

Pre.  An  honest  thief,  to  steal  but  what  thou 
givest. 

Viet.  And  we  shall  sit  together  unmolested. 

And  words  of  true  love  pass  from  tongue  to  tongue. 
As  singing  birds  from  one  bough  to  another. 

Pre.  That  were  a life  indeed  to  make  time 
envious ! 

I knew  that  thou  wouldst  visit  me  to-night. 

I saw  thee  at  the  play, 
vou.  r.  1 1 


IG2 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  Sweet  child  of  air  ? 

Never  did  I behold  thee  so  attired 
And  garmented  in  beauty  as  to-night ! 

What  hast  thou  done  to  make  thee  look  so  fair  ? 
Pre.  Am  I not  always  fair  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  and  so  fair 

That  I am  jealous  of  all  eyes  that  see  thee, 

And  wish  that  they  were  blind. 

Pre.  I heed  them  not ; 

When  thou  art  present,  I see  none  but  thee  ! 

Viet.  There ’s  nothing  fair  nor  beautiful,  but 
takes 

Something  from  thee,  that  makes  it  beautiful. 

Pre.  And  yet  thou  leavest  me  for  those  dusty 
books. 

Viet.  Thou  comest  between  me  and  those  books 
too  often  ! 

I see  thy  face  in  every  thing  I see ! 

The  paintings  in  the  chapel  wear  thy  looks. 

The  canticles  are  changed  to  sarabands, 

And  with  the  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
I see  thee  dance  cachuchas. 

Pre.  In  good  sooth, 

I dance  with  learned  doctors  of  the  schools 
To-morrow  morning. 

Viet.  And  with  whom,  I pray  ? 

Pre.  A grave  and  reverend  Cardinal,  and  his 
Grace 

The  Archbishop  of  Toledo. 

Viet.  What  mad  jest 

Is  this? 

Pre.  It  is  no  jest ; indeed  it  is  not. 

Viet.  Prithee,  explain  thyself. 

Pre.  Why,  simply  thus. 

Thou  knowest  the  Pope  has  sent  here  into  Spain 
To  put  a stop  to  dances  on  the  stage. 

Viet.  I have  heard  it  whispered. 

Pre.  Now  the  Cardinal, 

Who  for  this  purpose  comes,  would  fain  behold 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


163 


With  his  own  eyes  these  dances;  and  the  Arch- 
bishop 

Has  sent  for  me 

Viet.  That  thou  may’st  dance  before  them  ! 
Now  viva  la  cachucha ! It  will  breathe 
The  fire  of  youth  into  these  gray  old  men  ! 

’T  will  be  thy  proudest  conquest ! 

Pre.  Saving  one. 

And  yet  I fear  these  dances  will  be  stopped, 

And  Preciosa  be  once  more  a beggar. 

Viet.  The  sweetest  beggar  that  e’er  asked  for 
alms ; 

With  such  beseeching  eyes,  that  when  I saw  thee 
I gave  my  heart  away  I 

Pre.  Dost  thou  remember 

When  first  we  met  ? 

Viet.  It  was  at  Cordova, 

In  the  cathedral  garden.  Thou  wast  sitting 
Under  the  orange  trees,  beside  a fountain. 

Pre.  ’T  was  Easter-Sunday.  The  full  blos- 
somed trees 

Filled  all  the  air  with  fragrance  and  with  joy. 

The  priests  were  singing,  and  the  organ  sounded, 
And  then  anon  the  great  cathedral  bell. 

It  was  the  elevation  of  the  Host. 

We  both  of  us  fell  down  upon  our  knees. 

Under  the  orange  boughs,  and  prayed  together. 

I never  had  been  happy  till  that  moment. 

Viet.  Thou  blessed  angel ! 

Pre.  And  when  thou  wast  gone 

I felt  an  aching  here.  I did  not  speak 
To  any  one  that  day.  But  from  that  day 
Bartolome  grew  hateful  unto  me.  — 

Viet.  Bemember  him  no  more.  Let  not  his 
shadow 

Come  between  thee  and  me.  Sweet  Preciosa! 

I loved  thee  even  then,  though  I was  silent  1 

Pre.  I thought  I ne’er  should  see  thy  face  again. 
Thy  farewell  had  a sound  of  sorrow  in  it. 


164 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  That,  was  the  first  sound  in  the  song  of 
love ! 

Scarce  more  than  silence  is,  and  yet  a sound. 
Hands  of  invisible  spirits  touch  the  strings 
Of  that  mysterious  instrument,  the  soul. 

And  play  the  prelude  of  our  fate.  W e hear 
The  voice  prophetic,  and  are  not  alone. 

Pre.  That  is  my  faith.  Dost  thou  believe  these 
warnings  ? 

Viet.  So  far  as  this.  Our  feelings  and  our 
thoughts 

Tend  ever  on,  and  rest  not  in  the  Present. 

As  drops  of  rain  fall  into  some  dark  well, 

And  from  below  comes  a scarce  audible  sound, 

So  fall  our  thoughts  into  the  dark  Hereafter, 

And  their  mysterious  echo  reaches  us. 

Pre.  I have  felt  it  so,  but  found  no  words  to 
say  it ! 

I cannot  reason  ; I can  only  feel ! 

But  thou  hast  language  for  all  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings. 

Thou  art  a scholar;  and  sometimes  I think 
We  cannot  walk  together  in  this  world  ! 

The  distance  that  divides  us  is  too  great ! 
Henceforth  thy  pathway  lies  among  the  stars ; 

I must  not  hold  thee  back. 

Viet.  Thou  little  skeptic  ! 

Dost  thou  still  doubt  ? What  T most  prize  in 
woman 

Is  her  affections,  not  her  intellect ! 

The  intellect  is  finite  ; but  the  affections 
Are  infinite,  and  cannot  be  exhausted. 

Compare  me  with  the  great  men  of  the  earth ; 
What  am  I ? Why,  a pigmy  among  giants  ! 

But  if  thou  lovest, — mark  me  ! I say  lovest. 

The  greatest  of  thy  sex  excels  thee  not ! 

The  world  of  the  affection^  is  thy  world. 

Not  that  of  man’s  ambition.  In  that  stillness 
Which  most  becomes  a woman,  calm  and  holy. 


THK  SPANISH  STUHENT. 


IGo 


Thou  sittest  by  the  fireside  of  the  heart, 

Feeding  its  flame.  The  element  of  fire 
fs  pure.  It  cannot  change  nor  hide  its  nature, 

But  burns  as  brightly  in  a Gipsy  camp 
As  in  a palace  hall.  Art  thou  convinced  ? 

Pre.  Yes,  that  I love  thee,  as  the  good  love 
heaven, 

But  not  that  I am  worthy  of  that  heaven. 

How  shall  I more  deserve  it  ? 

Viet  Loving  more. 

Pre.  I cannot  love  thee  more  ; my  heart  is  full. 
yicL  Then  let  it  overflow,  and  I will  drink  it. 
As  in  the  summer-time  the  thirsty  sands 
Drink  the  swift  waters  of  the  Manzanares, 

And  still  do  thirst  for  more. 

A Watch,  [m  the  street.~\  Ave  Maria 
Purissima  ! ’T  is  midnight  and  serene  ! 

Viet.  Hear’st  thou  that  cry  ? 

Pre.  It  is  a hateful  sound. 

To  scare  thee  from  me  ! 

Viet.  As  the  hunter’s  horn 

Doth  scare  the  timid  stag,  or  bark  of  hounds 
The  moor-fowl  from  his  mate. 

Pre.  Pi*ay,  do  not  go  ! 

Viet.  I must  away  to  Alcala  to-night. 

Think  of  me  when  I am  away. 

Pre.  Fear  not! 

I have  no  thoughts  that  do  not  think  of  thee. 

Viet,  \_giving  her  a ring.']  And  to  remind  thee 
of  my  love,  take  this ; 

A serpem,  emblem  of  Eternity  ; 

A ruby, — say,  a drop  of  my  heart’s  blood. 

Pre.  It  is  an  ancient  saying,  that  the  ruby 
Brings  gladness  to  the  wearer,  and  preserves 
The  heart  pure,  and,  if  laid  beneath  the  pillow. 
Drives  away  evil  dreams.  But  then,  alas ! 

It  was  a serpent  tempted  Eve  to  sin. 

Viet.  What  convent  of  barefooted  Carmelites 
Taught  thee  so  much  theology  ? 


166 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Pre.  [laying  her  hand  upon  his  mouth.']  Hush 
Hush ! 

Good  night ! and  may  all  holy  angels  guard  thee  ! 
Viet.  Good  night ! good  night ! Thou  art  my 
guardian  angel ! 

I have  no  other  saint  than  thou  to  pray  to ! 

[He  descends  by  the  balcony. '\ 

Pre.  Take  care,  and  do  not  hurt  thee.  Art 
thou  safe  ? 

Viet,  [ from  the  garden.]  Safe  as  my  love  for 
thee  ! But  art  thou  safe  ? 

Others  can  climb  a balcony  by  moonlight 
As  well  as  I.  Pray,  shut  thy  window  close  ; 

I am  jealous  of  the  perfumed  air  of  night 
That  from  this  garden  climbs  to  kiss  thy  lips. 

Pre.  [throwing  down  her  handkerehief.]  Thou 
silly  child;  Take  this  to  blind  thine  eyes. 
It  is  my  benison  ! 

Viet.  And  brings  to  me 

Sweet  fragrance  from  thy  lips,  as  the  soft  wind 
Wafts  to  the  out-bound  mariner  the  breath 
Of  the  beloved  land  he  leaves  behind. 

Pre.  Make  not  thy  voyage  long. 

Viet.  To-morrow  night 

Shall  see  me  safe  returned.  Thou  art  the  star 
To  guide  me  to  an  anchorage.  Good  night ! 

My  beauteous  star ! My  star  of  love,  good  night ! 
Pre.  Good  night ! 

Wateh.  [at  a distanee.]  Ave  Maria  Purissima ! 


Scene  IV.  An  inn  on  the  road  to  Alcala.  Baltasak 
asleep  on  a bench.  Enter  Chispa. 

Chis.  And  here  we  are,  half-way  to  Alcala,  be- 
tween cocks  and  midnight.  Body  o’  me  ! what  an 
inn  this  is!  The  lights  out,  and  the  landlord 
asleep.  Hola  ! ancient  Baltasar  ! 

Balt.  [_waking.]  Here  I am. 

Chis.  Yes,  there  you  are,  like  a one-eyed 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


167 


Alcalde  in  a town  without  inhabitants.  Bring  a 
light,  and  let  me  have  supper. 

Balt.  Where  is  your  master  ? 

Chis.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  him.  We 
have  stopped  a moment  to  breathe  our  horses ; 
and,  if  he  chooses  to  walk  up  and  down  in  the  open 
air,  looking  into  the  sky  as  one  who  hears  it  rain, 
that  does  not  satisfy  my  hunger,  you  know.  But 
be  quick,  for  I am  in  a hurry,  and  every  man 
stretclies  his  legs  according  to  the  length  of  his 
coverlet.  What  have  we  here  ? 

BalL  {setting  a light  on  the  table. ~\  Stewed 

rabbit. 

Chis.  [eating.~\  Conscience  of  Portalegre ! 
Stewed  kitten,  you  mean  ! 

Balt.  And  a pitcher  of  Pedro  Ximenes,  with  a 
roasted  pear  in  it. 

Chis.  \drinidng.~\  Ancient  Baltasar,  amigo ! 
You  know  how  to  cry  wine  and  sell  vinegar.  I 
tell  you  this  is  nothing  but  Vino  Tinto  of  La 
Mancha,  with  a tang  of  the  swine-skin. 

Balt.  I swear  to  you  by  Saint  Simon  and  Judas, 
it  is  all  as  I say. 

Chis.  And  I swear  to  you,  by  Saint  Peter  and 
Saint  Paul,  that  it  is  no  such  thing.  Moreover, 
your  supper  is  like  the  hidalgo’s  dinner,  very  little 
meat,  and  a great  deal  of  table-cloth. 

Balt,  Ha  ! ha ! ha  ! 

Chis.  And  more  noise  than  nuts. 

Balt.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  must  have  your  joke, 
Master  Chispa.  But  shall  I not  ask  Don  Victo- 
rian in,  to  take  a draught  of  the  Pedro  Ximenes  ? 

Chis.  No ; you  might  as  well  say,  “ Don’t-you- 
want-some  V ” to  a dead  man. 

Balt.  Why  does  he  go  so  often  to  Madrid  ? 

Chis.  For  the  same  reason  that  he  eats  no  supper. 
He  is  in  love.  Were  you  ever  in  love,  Baltasar? 

Balt.  I was  never  out  of  it,  good  Chispa.  It  has 
been  the  torment  of  my  life. 


168 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Chh.  What ! are  you  on  fire,  too,  old  haystack  ? 
Why,  we  sha  1 never  be  able  to  put  you  out. 

Viet,  [iciihout.']  Chispa! 

Chls.  Go  to  bed,  Pero  Grullo,  for  the  cocks  are 
crowing. 

Viet.  Ea!  Chispa!  Chispa! 

Chis.  Ea ! Sefior.  Come  with  me,  ancient 
Baltasar,  and  bring  water  for  the  horses.  I will 
pay  for  the  supper,  to-morrow.  \^Ex€unt 

Scene  V.  Victorian’s  chambers  at  Alcala.  Hypolito 
asleep  in  an  arm-chair.  He  awakes  slowly. 

Hyp.  I must  have  been  asleep  ! ay,  sound  asleep  ! 
And  it  was  all  a dream.  O sleep,  sweet  sleep ! 
Whatever  form  thou  takest,  thou  art  fair. 

Holding  unto  our  lips  thy  goblet  filled 
Out  of  Oblivion’s  well,  a healing  draught ! 

The  candles  have  burned  low ; it  must  be  late. 
Where  can  Victorian  be  ? Like  Fray  Carrillo, 
The  only  place  in  which  one  cannot  find  him 
Is  his  own  cell.  Here ’s  his  guitar,  that  seldom 
Feels  the  caresses  of  its  master’s  hand. 

Open  thy  silent  lips,  sweet  instrument! 

And  make  dull  midnight  merry  with  a song. 

[//e  plays  and  sings.'] 

Padre  Francisco! 

Padre  Francisco ! 

What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Francisco? 

Here  is  a pretty  young  maiden 
Wlio  wants  to  confess  her  sins. 

Open  the  door  and  let  her  come  in, 

I will  shrive  her  from  every  sin. 

[Enter  Victorian.] 

Viet.  Padre  Hypolito  ! Padre  Hypolito  ! 

Hyp.  What  do  you  want  of  Padre  Hypolito  ? 
Viet.  Come,  shrive  me  straight ; for,  if  love  be 
a sin, 

I am  the  greatest  sinner  that  doth  live. 

I will  confess  the  sweetest  of  all  crimes, 

A maiden  wooed  and  won. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


IGO 

Hyp.  The  same  old  tale 

Of  tiie  old  woman  in  the  chimney  corner, 

Who,  while  the  pot  boils,  says,  “ Come  here,  my 
child ; 

I dl  tell  thee  a story  of  my  wedding-day.” 

Viet,  Nay,  listen,  for  my  heart  is  full ; so  full 
That  I must  speak. 

Hyp.  Alas!  that  heart  of  thine 

Is  like  a scene  in  the  old  play ; the  curtain 
Ivises  to  solemn  music,  and  lo  ! enter 
The  eleven  thousand  virgins  of  Cologne! 

Viet.  Nay,  like  the  Sibyfs  volumes,  thou 
shouldst  say ; 

Those  that  remained,  after  the  six  were  burned. 
Being  held  more  precious  than  the  nine  together. 
But  listen  to  my  tale.  Dost  thou  remember 
The  Gipsy  girl  we  saw  at  Cordova 
Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  market-place  ? 

Hyp.  Thou  meanest  Preciosa. 

Viet.  Ay,  the  same. 

Thou  knowest  how  her  image  haunted  me 
Long  after  we  returned  to  Alcala. 

She ’s  in  Madrid. 

Hyp.  I know  it. 

Viet.  And  I ’m  in  love. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  in  Madrid  when  thou 
shouldst  be 
In  Alcala. 

Viet.  O pardon  me,  my  friend. 

If  I so  long  have  kept  this  secret  from  thee  ; 

But  silence  is  the  charm  that  guards  such  treasures. 
And,  if  a word  be  spoken  ere  the  time. 

They  sink  again,  they  were  not  meant  for  us. 

Hyp.  Alas!  alas!  I see  thou  art  in  love. 

Love  keeps  the  cold  out  better  than  a cloak. 

It  serves  for  food  and  raiment.  Give  a Spaniard 
His  mass,  his  olla,  and  his  Dona  Luisa, — 

Thou  knowest  the  proverb.  But  pray  tell  me, 
lover. 


170 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


How  speeds  thy  wooing  ? Is  the  maiden  coy  ? 
Write  her  a song,  beginning  with  an  Ave ; 

Sing  as  the  monk  sang  to  the  Virgin  Mary, 

Ami  cujus  calcem  dare 
Nec  centenni  commendare 
Sciret  Seraph  studio! 

Viet.  Pray,  do  not  jest ! This  is  no  time  for  it ! 
I am  in  earnest ! 

Hyp.  Seriously  enamored  ? 

What,  ho  ! The  Primus  of  great  Alcala 
Enamored  of  a Gipsy?  Tell  me  frankly. 

How  meanest  thou  ? 

VicL  I mean  it  honestly. 

Hyp.  Surely  thou  wilt  not  marry  her  ! 

Vict.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  She  was  betrothed  to  one  Bartolom6, 

If  I remember  rightly,  a young  Gipsy 
Who  danced  with  her  at  Cordova, 

Vict.  They  quarrelled, 

And  so  the  matter  ended. 

Hyp.  But  in  truth 

Thou  wilt  not  marry  her. 

Vict.  In  truth,  I will. 

The  angels  sang  in  heaven  when  she  was  born! 
She  is  a precious  jewel  I have  found 
Among  the  filth  and  rubbish  of  the  world. 

I ’ll  stoop  for  it ; but  when  I wear  it  here. 

Set  on  my  forehead  like  the  morning  star, 

The  world  may  wonder,  but  it  will  not  laugh. 

Hyp.  If  thou  wear’st  nothing  else  upon  thy 
forehead, 

’T  will  be  indeed  a wonder. 

Vict.  Out  upon  thee, 

With  thy  unseasonable  jests  1 Pray,  tell  me. 

Is  there  no  virtue  in  the  world  ? 

Hyp.  Not  much. 

What,  think’st  thou,  is  she  doing  at  this  moment ; 
Now,  while  we  speak  of  her  ? 

Vict.  She  lies  asleep, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


] 71 


And.  from  her  parted  lips,  her  gentle  breath 
Comes  like  the  fragrance  from  the  lips  of  flowers. 
Her  tender  limbs  are  still,  and,  on  her  breast. 

The  cross  she  prayed  to,  e’er  she  fell  asleep. 

Rises  and  falls  with  the  soft  tide  of  dreams. 

Like  a light  barge  safe  moored. 

Hyp.  Which  means,  in  prose, 

She ’s  sleeping  with  her  mouth  a little  open  ! 

Viet.  O,  would  I had  the  old  magician’s  glass 
To  see  her  as  she  lies  in  child-like  sleep  ! 

Hyp.  And  wouldst  thou  venture  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  Indeed  I would  ! 

Hyp.  Thou  art  courageous.  Hast  thou  e’er  re- 
flected 

How  much  lies  hidden  in  that  one  word,  now  f 
Vief.  Yes  ; all  the  awful  mystery  of  Life  ! 

I oft  have  thought,  my  dear  Hypolito, 

That  could  we,  by  some  spell  of  magic,  change 
The  world  and  its  inhabitants  to  stone. 

In  the  same  attitudes  they  now  are  in, 

What  fearful  glances  downward  might  we  cast 
Into  the  hollow  chasms  of  human  life  ! 

What  groups  should  we  behold  about  the  death- 
bed, 

Putting  to  shame  the  group  of  Niobe  ! 

What  joyful  welcomes,  and  what  sad  farewells ! 
What  stony  tears  in  those  congealed  eyes ! 

What  visible  joy  or  anguish  in  those  cheeks ! 

What  bridal  pomps,  and  what  funereal  shows ! 
What  foes,  like  gladiators,  fierce  and  struggling  ! 
What  lovers  with  their  marble  lips  together ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  there  it  is ! and,  if  I were  in  love, 
That  is  the  very  point  I most  should  dread. 

This  magic  glass,  these  magic  spells  of  thine. 

Might  tell  a tale  were  better  left  untold. 

For  instance,  they  might  show  us  thy  fair  cousin, 
The  Lady  Violante,  bathed  in  tears 
Of  love  and  anger,  like  the  maid  of  Colchis, 

Whom  thou,  another  faithless  Argonaut, 


172 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Having  won  that  golden  fleece,  a woman’s  love, 
Desertest  for  this  Glance. 

Viet.  Hold  thy  peace  ! 

She  cares  not  for  me.  She  may  wed  another, 

Or  go  into  a convent,  and,  thus  dying, 

Marry  Achilles  in  the  Elysian  Fields. 

Hyp.  [rmng.']  And  so,  good  night ! Good  morn- 
ing, I should  say. 

[Clock  strikes  three.] 

Hark  ! how  the  loud  and  ponderous  mace  of  Time 
Knocks  at  the  golden  portals  of  the  day ! 

And  so,  once  more,  good  night!  We  ’ll  speak 
more  largely 

Of  Preciosa  when  we  meet  again. 

Get  thee  to  bed,  and  the  magician.  Sleep, 

Shall  show  her  to  thee,  in  his  magic  glass. 

In  all  her  loveliness.  Good  night ! \_Exit. 

Viet.  Good  night ! 

But  not  to  bed ; for  I must  read  awhile. 

[Throws  himself  into  the  arm-chair  ichich  Hypolito  has 
left.,  and  lays  a large  hook  open  upon  his  knees.] 

Must  read,  or  sit  in  reverie  and  watch 
The  changing  color  of  the  waves  that  break 
Upon  the  idle  seashore  of  the  mind ! 

Visions  of  Fame  ! that  once  did  visit  me. 

Making  night  glorious  with  your  smile,  where  are 

Ve  ? 

O,  who  shall  give  me,  now  that  ye  are  gone. 

Juices  of  those  immortal  plants  that  bloom 
Upon  Olympus,  making  us  immortal  V 
Or  teach  me  where  that  wondrous  mandrake  grows 
Whose  magic  root,  torn  from  the  earth  with  groans. 
At  midnight  hour,  can  scare  the  fiends  away. 

And  make  the  mind  prolific  in  its  fancies  ? 

I have  the  wish,  but  want  the  will,  to  act  1 
Souls  of  great  men  departed  ! Ye  whose  words 
Have  come  to  light  from  the  swift  river  of  Time, 
Like  Roman  swords  found  in  the  Tagus*  bed, 


THE  SPAXISir  STUDENT. 


1 73 

Where  is  the  strength  to  wield  tlie  arms  ye  bore  ? 
From  the  barred  visor  of  Antiquity 
Reflected  shines  the  eternal  light  of  Truth, 

As  from  a mirror  ! All  the  means  of  action — 

The  shapeless  masses — the  materials — 

Lie  everywhere  about  us.  What  we  need 
Is  the  celestial  fire  to  change  the  flint 
Into  transparent  crystal,  bright  and  clear. 

That  fire  is  genius  ! The  rude  ])casant  sits 
At  evening  in  his  smoky  cot,  and  draws 
With  charcoal  uncouth  figures  on  the  wall. 

The  son  of  genius  comes,  foot-sore  wltli  travel, 

And  begs  a shelter  from  the  inclement  night. 

He  takes  the  charcoal  from  the  peasant's  hand, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  his  touch  at  once 
Transfigured,  all  its  hidden  virtues  shine. 

And,  in  the  eyes  of  the  astonished  clown. 

It  gleams  a diamond  ! Even  thus  transformed. 

Rude  popular  ti-aditions  and  old  tales 

Shine  as  immortal  poems,  at  the  touch 

Of  some  ])oor,  houseless,  homeless,  wandering  bard- 

Who  had  but  a night’s  lodging  for  his  pains. 

But  there  are  brighter  dreams  than  those  of  Fame, 
Which  are  the  dreams  of  Love  ! Out  of  the  heart 
Rises  the  bright  ideal  of  these  dreams. 

As  from  some  woodland  fount  a spirit  rises 
And  sinks  again  into  its  silent  deeps. 

Ere  the  enamored  knight  can  touch  her  robe  ! 

’T  is  this  ideal  that  the  soul  of  man, 

Like  the  enamored  knight  beside  the  fountain. 
Waits  for  upon  the  margin  of  Life’s  stre  im  ; 

Waits  to  behold  her  rise  from  the  dark  waters. 

Clad  in  a mortal  shape  ! Alas  ! how  many 
Must  wait  in  vain  ! The  stream  flows  evermore, 
But  from  its  silent  deeps  no  spirit /ises  ! 

Yet  I,  born  under  a propitious  star. 

Have  found  the  bright  ideal  of  my  dreams. 

Yes!  she  is  ever  with  me.  I can  feel, 

Here,  as  I sit  at  midnight  and  alone. 


174 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Her  gentle  breathing  ! on  my  breast  can  feel 
The  pressure  of  her  head  ! God’s  benison 
Rest  ever  on  it ! Close  those  beauteous  eyes, 
Sweet  Sleep ! and  all  the  flowers  that  bloom  at 
night 

With  balmy  lips  breathe  in  her  ears  my  name  ! 
{^Gradually  sinks  asleep.~\ 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  Pkectosa’s  chamber.  Morning.  Pkeciosa 
and  Angelica. 

Pre.  A\7 HY  will  you  go  so  soon  ? Stay  yet 
awhile. 

The  poor  too  often  turn  away  unheard 
From  hearts  that  shut  against  them  with  a sound 
That  will  be  heard  in  heaven.  Pray,  tell  me  more 
Of  your  adversities.  Keep  nothing  from  me. 

What  is  your  landlord’s  name  V 

Ang.  The  Count  of  Lara. 

Pre.  The  Count  of  Lara  ? O,  beware  that 
man  ! 

Mistrust  his  pity, — hold  no  parley  with  him  ! 

And  rather  die  an  outcast  in  the  streets 
Than  touch  his  gold. 

Ang.  You  know  him,  then  ! 

Pre.  As  much 

As  any  woman  may,  and  yet  be  pure. 

As  you  would  keep  your  name  without  a blemish. 
Beware  of  him ! 

Ang.  Alas  ! what  can  I do  ? 

I cannot  choose  my  friends.  Each  word  of  kind- 
ness. 

Come  whence  it  may,  is  welcome  to  the  poor. 

Pre.  Make  me  your  friend.  A girl  so  young 
and  fair 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


175 


Should  have  no  friends  but  those  of  her  own  sex. 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Ang.  Angelica. 

Pre,  That  name 

Was  given  you,  that  you  might  be  an  angel 
To  her  who  bore  you  ! When  your  infant  smile 
Made  her  home  Paradise,  you  were  her  angel. 

O,  be  an  angel  still ! She  needs  that  smile. 

So  long  as  you  are  innocent,  fear  nothing. 

No  one  can  harm  you  ! I am  a poor  girl. 

Whom  chance  has  taken  from  the  public  streets. 

I have  no  other  shield  than  mine  own  virtue, 

That  is  the  charm  which  has  protected  me  ! 

Amid  a thousand  perils,  I have  worn  it 
Here  on  my  heart ! It  is  my  guardian  angel. 

Aiig.  [rising. I thank  you  for  this  counsel, 
dearest  lady. 

Pre.  Thank  me  by  following  it. 

Ang.  Indeed  I will. 

Pre.  Pray,  do  not  go.  I have  much  more  to 
say. 

Ang.  My  mother  is  alone.  I dare  not  leave  her. 
Pre.  Some  other  time,  then,  when  we  meet 
again. 

You  must  not  go  away  with  words  alone. 

[Gives  her  a purse.'] 

Take  this.  Would  it  were  more. 

Ang.  I thank  you,  lady. 

Pre.  No  thanks.  To-morrow  come  to  me  again. 
1 dance  to-night, — perhaps  for  the  last  time. 

But  what  I gain,  I promise  shall  be  yours. 

If  that  can  save  you  from  the  Count  of  Lara. 

Ang.  O,  my  dear  lady  ! how  shall  I be  grateful 
For  so  much  kindness  ? 

Pre.  I deserve  no  thanks. 

Thank  Heaven,  not  me. 

Ang.  Both  Heaven  and  you. 

Pre.  F are  well. 

Efemember  that  you  come  again  to-morrow. 


176 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Ang.  I will.  And  may  the  blessed  Virgin  guard 
you, 

And  all  good  angels.  [^Exit. 

Pre.  May  they  guard  thee  too, 

And  all  the  poor ; for  they  have  need  of  angels. 
Now  bring  me,  dear  Dolores,  my  basquina, 

My  richest  maja  dress, — my  dancing  dress, 

And  my  most  precious  jewels  ! Make  me  look 
Fairer  than  night  e’er  saw  me  ! I ’ve  a prize 
To  win  this  day,  worthy  of  Preciosa  I 

yEnter  Beltran  Cruzado.] 

Cruz.  Ave  Maria ! 

Pre.  0 God  ! my  evil  genius  ! 

What  seekest  thou  here  to-day  ? 

Cruz.  Thyself, — my  child. 

Pre.  What  is  thy  will  with  me  ? 

Cruz.  Gold  ! gold  ! 

Pre.  I gave  thee  yesterday  ; I have  no  more. 
Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busn6, — give  me  his 
' gold  ! 

Pre.  I gave  the  last  in  charity  to-day. 

Cruz.  That  is  a foolish  lie. 

Pre.  It  is  the  truth. 

Cruz.  Curses  upon  thee ! Thou  art  not  my 
child ! 

Hast  thou  given  gold  away,  and  not  to  me  ? 

Not  to  thy  father  ? To  whom,  then  ? 

]^re.  To  one 

Who  needs  it  more. 

Cruz.  No  one  can  need  it  more. 

Pre.  Thou  art  not  poor. 

Cruz.  What,  I,  who  lurk  about 

In  dismal  suburbs  and  unwholesome  lanes  ; 

I,  who  am  housed  worse  than  the  galley  slave, 

I,  who  am  fed  worse  than  the  kennelled  hound, 

I,  who  am  clothed  in  rags, — Beltran  Cruzado, — 
Not  poor ! 

Pre.  Thou  hast  a stout  heart  and  strong  hands 
Thou  canst  supply  thy  wants ; what  wouldst  thou 
more  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


177 


Cruz.  The  gold  of  the  Busn6  ! give  me  his 
gold  ! 

Pre.  Beltran  Cruzado  ! hear  me  once  for  all. 

I speak  the  truth.  So  long  as  I had  gold, 

I gave  it  to  thee  freely,  at  all  times. 

Never  denied  thee  ; never  had  a wish 
But  to  fulfil  thine  own.  Now  go  in  peace  ! 

Be  merciful,  be  patient,  and,  ere  long. 

Thou  shall  have  more. 

Cruz.  And  if  I have  it  not, 

Thou  shalt  no  longer  dwell  here  in  rich  chambers. 
Wear  silken  dresses,  feed  on  dainty  food. 

And  live  in  idleness ; but  go  with  me. 

Dance  the  Romalis  in  the  public  streets, 

And  wander  wild  again  o’er  field  and  fell ; 

For  here  we  stay  not  long. 

Pre.  . What ! march  again  ? 

Cruz.  Ay,  with  all  speed.  I hate  the 
crowded  town ! 

I cannot  breathe  shut  up  within  its  gates ! 

Air, — I want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 

The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  my  face, 

The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet. 

And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain  tops. 

Then  I am  free  and  strong, — once  more  myself, 
Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales  ! 

Pre.  God  speed  thee  on  thy  march  ! — I cannot 
go. 

Cruz.  Remember  who  I am,  and  who  thou  art ! 
Be  silent  and  obey ! Yet  one  thing  more. 

Bartolom6  Roman 

Pre.  [icith  emotion.']  O,  I beseech  thee  ! 

If  my  obedience  and  blameless  life. 

If  my  humihty  and  meek  submission 
In  all  things  hitherto,  can  move  in  thee 
One  feeling  of  compassion;  if  thou  art 
Indeed  my  father,  and  canst  trace  in  me 
One  look  of  her  who  bore  me,  or  one  tone 
That  doth  remind  thee  of  her,  let  it  plead 
VOL.  I.  12 


178 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


In  my  behalf,  who  am  a feeble  girl, 

Too  feeble  to  resist,  and  do  not  force  me 
To  wed  that  man  ! I am  afraid  of  him ! 

I do  not  love  him  ! On  my  knees  I beg  thee 
To  use  no  violence,  nor  do  in  haste 
What  cannot  be  undone  ! 

Ci'uz.  O child,  child,  child ! 

Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  secret,  as  a bird 
Betrays  her  nest,  by  striving  to  conceal  it. 

I will  not  leave  thee  here  in  the  great  city 
To  be  a grandee’s  mistress.  Make  thee  ready 
To  go  with  us  ; and  until  then  remember 
A watchful  eye  is  on  thee.  \_Exit 

Pre.  Woe  is  me  ! 

I have  a strange  misgiving  in  my  heart ! 

But  that  one  deed  of  charity  I’ll  do. 

Befall  what  may  ; they  cannot  take  that  from  me. 

\_Exit 

Scene  II. — A room  in  the  Archbishop’s  imlace.  The 
Archbishop  and  a Cardinal  seated. 

Arch.  Knowing  how  near  it  touched  the  public 
morals. 

And  that  our  age  is  grown  corrupt  and  rotten 
By  such  excesses,  we  have  sent  to  Rome, 
Beseeching  that  his  Holiness  would  aid 
In  curing  the  gross  surfeit  of  the  time. 

By  seasonable  stop  put  here  in  Spain 
To  bull-fights  and  lewd  dances  on  the  stage. 

Ail  this  you  know. 

Card.  Know  and  approve. 

Arch.  And  farther. 

That,  by  a mandate  from  his  Holiness, 

The  first  have  been  suppressed. 

Card.  I trust  forever, 

It  was  a cruel  sport. 

Arch.  A barbarous  pastime, 

Disgraceful  to  the  land  that  calls  itself 
Most  Catholic  and  Christian. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


171) 


Card.  Yet  the  people 

Murmur  at  this  ; and,  if  the  public  dances 
Sliould  be  condemned  upon  too  slight  occasion, 
Worse  ills  might  follow  than  the  ills  we  cure. 

As  Panem  et  Circenses  was  the  cry, 

Among  the  Roman  populace  of  old, 

So  Pan  y Tor'os  is  the  cry  in  Spain. 

Hence  I would  act  advisedly  herein  ; 

And  therefore  have  induced  your  grace  to  see 
These  national  dances,  ere  we  interdict  them. 
[Enter  a Servant] 

Ser.  The  dancing-girl,  and  with  her  the  musicians 
Your  grace  was  pleased  to  order,  wait  without. 
Arch.  Bid  them  come  in.  Now  shall  your  eyes 
behold 

In  what  angelic  yet  voluptuous  shape 
The  Devil  came  to  tempt  Saint  Anthony. 

[Enter  Pkeciosa,  loith  a mantle  thrown  over  her  head.  Sfis 
advances  slowly^  in  a modesty  half-timid  attitude.] 

Car'd.  [aside.'\  O,  what  a fair  and  ministering 
angel 

Was  lost  to  heaven  when  this  sweet  woman  fell ! 
Pre.  [kneeling  before  the  Arclibishop~\.  I have 
obeyed  the  order  of  your  grace. 

If  I intrude  upon  your  better  hours, 

I proffer  this  excuse,  and  here  beseech 
Your  holy  benediction. 

Arch.  May  God  bless  thee. 

And  lead  thee  to  a better  life.  Arise. 

Card,  [aside.']  Her  acts  are  modest,  and  her 
words  discreet ! 

I did  not  look  for  this  ! Come  hither,  child. 

Is  thy  name  Preciosa. 

Pre.  Thus  I am  called. 

Card.  That  is  a Gipsy  name.  Who  is  thy 
father. 

Pre.  Beltran  Cruzado,  Count  of  the  Cales. 

I have  a dim  remembrance  of  that  man ; 


ISO 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


He  was  a bold  and  reckless  character, 

A sun-burnt  Ishmael ! 

Card,  Dost  thou  remember 

Thy  earlier  days  ? 

Pre.  Yes ; by  the  Darro^s  side 

My  childhood  passed.  I can  remember  still 
The  river,  and  the  mountains  capped  with  snow ; 
The  villages,  where,  yet  a little  child, 

I told  the  traveller’s  fortune  in  the  street ; 

The  smuggler’s  horse,  the  brigand  and  the  shepherd  ; 
The  march  across  the  moor ; the  halt  at  noon ; 

The  red  fire  of  the  evening  camp,  that  lighted 
The  forest  where  we  slept ; and,  farther  back. 

As  in  a dream  or  in  some  former  life, 

Gardens  and  palace  walls. 

Arch.  ’T  is  the  Alhambra, 

Under  whose  towers  the  Gipsy  camp  was  pitched. 
But  the  time  wears;  and  we  would  see  thee  dance. 
Pre.  Your  grace  shall  be  obeyed. 

[(S/?e  lays  aside  her  mantilla.  The  music  of  the  cachucha  is 
played.,  and  the  dance  begins.  The  AncnmsHOP  and 
the  Cardinal  look  on  with  gravity  and  an  occasional 
frown;  then  make  signs  to  each  other ; and.,  as  the  dance 
continues.,  become  more  and  more  pleased  and  excited;  and 
at  length  rise  from  their  seats,  thr'ow  their  caps  in  the  air, 
and  applaud  vehemently  as  the  scene  closes.^ 

Scene  III. — The  Prado.  Along  avenue  of  trees  leading 
to  the  gate  of  Atocha.  On  the  right  the  dome  and  spires 
of  a convent.  A fountain.  Evening.  Don  Carlos  and 
Hypolito  meeting. 

Carlos.  Hola  ! good  evening,  Don  Hypolito. 
Hyp.  And  a good  evening  to  my  friend,  Don 
Carlos. 

Some  lucky  star  has  led  my  steps  this  Avay. 

I was  in  search  of  you. 

Carlos.  Command  me  always. 

Hyp.  Do  you  remember,  in  Quevedo’s  Dreams, 
The  miser,  who,  upon  the  Day  of  Judgment, 

Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


181 


Carlos.  I do ; 

But  what  of  that  ? 

Hyp.  I am  that  wretched  man. 

Carlos.  You  mean  to  tell  me  yours  have  risen 
empty  ? 

Hyp.  And  amen  ! said  my  Cid  Campeador. 
Carlos.  Pray,  how  much  need  you  ? 

Hyp.  Some  half  dozen  ounces, 

Which,  with  due  interest 

Carlos  \_giving  his  purse'].  What,  am  I a Jew, 
To  put  my  moneys  out  at  usury? 

Here  is  my  purse. 

Hyp.  Thank  you.  A pretty  purse. 

Made  by  the  hand  of  some  fair  Madrilena  ; 

Perhaps  a keepsake. 

Carlos.  No,  ’t  is  at  your  service. 

Hyp.  Thank  you  again.  Lie  there,  good 
Chrysostom, 

And  with  thy  golden  mouth  remind  me  often, 

I am  the  debtor  of  my  friend. 

Carlos.  But  tell  me. 

Come  you  to-day  from  Alcala  ? 

Hyp.  This  moment. 

Carlos.  And  pray,  how  fares  the  brave  Victo- 
rian ? 

Hyp.  Indifferent  well ; that  is  to  say,  not  well. 
A damsel  has  ensnared  him  with  the  glances 
Of  her  dark,  roving  eyes,  as  herdsmen  catch 
A steer  of  Andalusia  with  a lazo. 

He  is  in  love. 

Carlos.  And  is  it  faring  ill 

To  be  in  love  ? 

Hyp.  In  his  case  very  ill. 

Carlos.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  For  many  reasons.  First 

and  foremost. 

Because  he  is  in  love  with  an  ideal ; 

A creature  of  his  own  imagination  ; 

A child  of  air  ; an  echo  of  his  heart ; 


182 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


And,  like  a lily  on  a river  floating, 

She  floats  upon  the  river  of  his  thoughts ! 

Carlos.  A common  thing  with  poets.  But  who  is 
This  floating  lily  ? For,  in  fine,  some  woman, 
Some  living  woman, — not  a mere  ideal, — 

Must  wear  the  outward  semblance  of  his  thought. 
Who  is  it?  Tell  me. 

Hyp.  Well,  it  is  a woman  ! 

But,  look  you,  from  the  coffer  of  his  heart 
He  brings  forth  precious  jewels  to  adorn  her. 

As  pious  priests  adorn  some  favorite  saint 
With  gems  and  gold,  until  at  length  she  gleams 
One  blaze  of  glory.  Without  these,  you  know, 
And  the  priest’s  benediction,  't  is  a doll. 

Carlos.  Well,  well!  who  is  this  doll  ? 

Hyp.  Why,  who  do  you  think  ? 

Carlos.  His  cousin  Yiolante. 

Hyp.  Guess  again. 

To  ease  his  laboring  heart,  in  the  last  storm 
He  threw  her  overboard,  with  all  her  ingots. 

Carlos.  I cannot  guess  ; so  tell  me  who  it  is. 
Hyp.  Not  I. 

Carlos.  Why  not  ? 

Hyp.  \_mysteriously.'\  Why?  Because  Mari 
F ranca 

Was  married  four  leagues  out  of  Salamanca ! 
Carlos.  J esting  aside,  who  is  it  ? 

Hyp.  Preciosa. 

Carlos.  Impossible  ! The  Count  of  Lara  tells  me 
She  is  not  virtuous. 

Hyp.  Did  I say  she  was  ? 

The  Boman  Emperor  Claudius  had  a wife 
Whose  name  was  Messalina,  as  I think  ; 

Valeria  Messalina  was  her  name. 

But  hist ! I see  him  yonder  through  the  trees. 
Walking  as  in  a dream. 

Carlos.  He^  comes  this  way. 

Hyp.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  some  wise  man, 
That  money,  grief,  and  love  cannot  be  hidden. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


183 


[Enter  Victorian  in  front.]  ♦ 

Viet.  Where’er  thy  step  has  passed  is  holy 
ground : 

These  groves  are  sacred  ! I behold  thee  walking 
Under  these  shadowy  trees,  where  we  have  walked 
At  evening,  and  I feel  thy  presence  now; 

Feel  that  the  place  has  taken  a charm  from  thee, 
And  is  forever  hallowed. 

Hyp.  Mark  him  well! 

See  how  he  strides  away  with  lordly  air, 

Like  that  odd  guest  of  stone,  that  grim  Commander 
Who  comes  to  sup  with  Juan  in  the  play. 

Carlos.  What  ho ! Victorian  1 
Hyp.  Wilt  thou  sup  with  us  ? 

Viet.  Hola!  amigos!  Faith,  I did  not  see  you. 
How  fares  Don  Carlos? 

Carlos.  At  your  service  ever. 

Viet.  How  is  that  young  and  green-eyed. Gadi 
tana 

That  you  both  wot  of? 

Carlos.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes  ! 

Site  has  gone  back  to  Cadiz. 

Hyp.  Ay  de  ml ! 

Viet.  You  are  much  to  blame  for  lettimj  her  go 
back. 

A pretty  girl ; and  in  her  tender  eyes 
J ust  that  soft  shade  of  green  we  sometimes  see 
In  evening  skies. 

Hyp.  But,  speaking  of  green  eyes. 

Are  thine  green  ? 

Viet.  Not  a whit.  Why  so  ? 

Hyp.  I think 

The  slightest  shade  of  green  would  be  becoming. 
For  thou  art  jealous. 

Viet.  No,  T am  not  jealous. 

Hijp.  Thou  shouldst  be. 

Viet.  Why? 

Hyp.  Because  thou  art  in  love. 


184 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


And  they  who  are  in  love  are  always  jealous. 
Therefore  thou  shouldst  be. 

VicL  Marry,  is  that  all  ? 

Farewell ; I am  in  haste.  Farewell,  Don  Carlos. 
Thou  sayest  1 should  be  jealous  ? 

Hyp,  Ay,  in  truth 

I fear  there  is  reason.  Be  upon  thy  guard. 

I hear  it  whispered  that  the  Count  of  Lara 
Lays  siege  to  the  same  citadel. 

Viet.  Indeed ! 

Then  he  will  have  his  labor  for  his  pains. 

Hyp.  He  does  not  think  so,  and  Don  Carlos 
tells  me 

He  boasts  of  his  success. 

Viet.  How ’s  this,  Don  Carlos  ? 

Carlos.  Some  hints  of  it  I heard  from  his  own 
lips. 

He  spoke  but  lightly  of  the  lady’s  virtue. 

As  a gay  man  might  speak. 

Viet.  Death  and  damnation  ! 

I ’ll  cut  his  lying  tongue  out  of  his  mouth. 

And  throw  it  to  my  dog  ! But  no,  no,  no ! 

This  cannot  be.  You  jest,  indeed  you  jest. 

Trifle  with  me  no  more.  For  otherwise 
We  are  no  longer  friends.  And  so,  farewell ! [^Exit, 
Hyp.  Now  what  a coil  is  here  ! The  Avenging 
Child 

Hunting  the  traitor  Quadros  to  his  death, 

And  the  great  Moor  Calaynos,  when  he  rode 
To  Paris  for  the  ears  of  Oliver, 

Were  nothing  to  him  ! O hot-headed  youth  ! 

But  come  ; we  will  not  follow.  Let  us  join 
The  crowd  that  pours  into  the  Prado.  There 
We  shall  find  merrier  company;  I see 
The  Marialonzos  and  the  Almavivas, 

And  fifty  fans,  that  beckon  me  already.  [_Exe^int. 

Scene  IV.  Pkeciosa’s  chamber.  She  is  sittiny,  with  a 
book  in  her  hand^  near  a table.,  on  which  are  flowers.  A 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


185 


Hrd  singing  in  its  cage.  The  Count  of  Lara  enters 
behind  unperceived. 

Pre.  Ij'eads.'] 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art  1 

Heigho  ! I wish  Victorian  were  here. 

I know  not  what  it  is  makes  me  so  restless ! 

[The  bird  sings.'] 

Thou  little  prisoner  with  thy  motley  coat, 

That  from  thy  vaulted,  wiry  dungeon  singest, 

Like  thee  I am  a captive,  and,  like  thee, 

I have  a gentle  gaoler.  Lack-a-day ! 

All  are  sleeping,  weary  heart ! 

Thou,  thou  only  sleepless  art ! 

All  this  throbbing,  all  this  aching. 

Evermore  shall  keep  thee  waking. 

For  a heart  in  sorrow  breaking 
Thinketh  ever  of  its  smart! 

Thou  speakest  truly,  poet ! and  methinks  • 

More  hearts  are  breaking  in  this  world  of  ours 
Than  one  would  say.  In  distant  villages 
And  solitudes  remote,  where  winds  have  wafted 
The  barbed  seeds  of  love,  or  birds  of  passage 
Scattered  them  in  their  flight,  do  they  take  root, 
And  grow  in  silence,  and  in  silence  perish. 

Who  hears  the  falling  of  the  forest  leaf? 

Or  who  takes  note  of  every  flower  that  dies  ? 
Heigho ! I wish  Victorian  would  come. 

Dolores! 

[Turns  to  lay  dmvn  her  booJcj  and  perceives  the  Count.] 

Lara.  Senora,  pardon  me  ! 

Pre.  How ’s  this  ? Dolores  ! 

Lara.  Pardon  me 

Pre,  Dolores  1 

Lara.  Be  not  alarmed ; I found  no  one  in 
waiting. 

If  I have  been  too  bold 


186 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Pre.  \tnrninq  her  hack  upon  him.~\  You  are  too 
bold! 

Retire  ! retire,  and  leave  me  ! 

Lara.  My  dear  lady, 

First  hear  me  1 I beseech  you,  let  me  speak  I 
'T  is  for  your  good  I come. 

Pre.  [turning  toward  him  with  indignation.'] 
Begone ! Begone ! 

You  are  the  Count  of  Lara,  but  your  deeds 
Would  make  the  statues  of  your  ancestors 
Blush  on  their  tombs  1 Is  it  Castilian  honor, 

Is  it  Castilian  pride,  to  steal  in  here 
Upon  a friendless  girl,  to  do  her  wrong  ? 

0 shame  ! shame  ! shame  1 that  you,  a nobleman. 
Should  be  so  little  noble  in  your  thoughts 

As  to  send  jewels  here  to  win  my  love. 

And  think  to  buy  my  honor  with  your  gold ! 

1 have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I scorn  you  ! 
Begone  I The  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me  ! 
Begone,  I say  ! 

Lara.  Be  calm  ; I will  not  harm  you. 

Pre.  Because  you  dare  not. 

Lara.  I dare  any  thing  ! 

Therefore  beware  1 You  are  deceived  in  me. 

In  this  false  world,  we  do  not  always  know 
Who  are  our  friends  and  who  our  enemies. 

We  all  have  enemies,  and  all  need  friends. 

Even  you,  fair  Preciosa,  here  at  court 
Have  foes,  who  seek  to  wrong  you. 

Pre.  If  to  this 

I owe  the  honor  of  the  present  visit. 

You  might  have  spared  the  coming.  Having 
spoken, 

Once  more  I beg  you,  leave  me  to  myself. 

Lara.  I thought  it  but  a friendly  part  to  tell  you 
What  strange  reports  are  current  here  in  town. 
For  my  own  self,  I do  not  credit  them  ; 

But  there  are  many  who,  not  knowing  you. 

Will  lend  a readier  ear. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


187 


Pre.  There  was  no  need 

That  you  should  take  upon  yourself  the  duty 
Of  telling  me  these  tales. 

Lara.  Malicious  tongues 

Are  ever  busy  with  your  name. 

Pre.  Alas ! 

I have  no  protectors.  I am  a poor  girl, 

Exposed  to  insults  and  unfeeling  jests. 

They  wound  me,  yet  I cannot  shield  myself. 

I give  no  cause  for  these  reports.  1 live 
Retired ; am  visited  by  none. 

Lara.  By  none  ? 

O,  then,  indeed,  you  are  much  wronged ! 

Pre.  How  mean  you  ? 

Lara.  Nay,  nay  ; I will  not  wound  your  gentle 
soul 

By  the  report  of  idle  tales. 

Pre.  Speak  out  ^ 

What  are  these  idle  tales  ? You  need  not  spare 
me. 

Lara.  I will  deal  frankly  with  you.  Pardon  me ; 
This  window,  as  I think,  looks  toward  the  street. 
And  this  into  the  Prado,  does  it  not  ? 

In  yon  high  house,  beyond  the  garden  wall, — 

You  see  the  roof  there  just  above  the  trees, — 
There  lives  a friend,  who  told  me  yesterday. 

That  on  a certain  night, — be  not  offended 

If  I too  plainly  speak, — he  saw  a man 

Climb  to  your  chamber  window.  You  are  silent ! 

I would  not  blame  you,  being  young  and  fair 

[He  tries  to  embrace  her.  She  starts  back,  and  draws  a 
dagger  from  her  bosom.^ 

Pre.  Beware  ! beware  ! I am  a Gipsy  girl ! 

Lay  not  your  hand  upon  me.  One  step  nearer 
And  I will  strike  ! 

Lara.  Pray  you,  put  up  that  dagger. 

Fear  not. 

Pre.  I do  not  fear.  I have  a heart 

In  whose  strength  I can  trust. 


188 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Lara,  Listen  to  me. 

I come  here  as  your  friend, — I am  your  friend, — 
And  by  a single  word  can  put  a stop 
To  all  those  idle  tales,  and  make  your  name 
Spotless  as  Klies  are.  Here  on  my  knees. 

Fair  Preciosa  ! on  my  knees  I swear, 

I love  you  even  to  madness,  and  that  love 
Has  driven  me  to  break  the  rules  of  custom. 

And  force  myself  unasked  into  your  presence. 
[Victorian  enters  behind.] 

Pre.  Kise,  Count  of  Lara  ! That  is  not  the  place 
For  such  as  you  are.  It  becomes  you  not 
To  kneel  before  me.  I am  strangely  moved 
To  see  one  of  your  rank  thus  low  and  humbled ; 
For  your  sake  I will  put  aside  all  anger. 

All  unkind  feeling,  all  dislike,  and  speak 
In  gentleness,  as  most  becomes  a woman. 

And  as  my  heart  now  prompts  me.  I no  more 
Will  hate  you,  for  all  hate  is  painful  to  me. 

But  if,  without  offending  modesty 

And  that  reserve  which  is  a woman’s  glory, 

I may  speak  freely,  I will  teach  my  heart 
To  love  you. 

Lara.  O sweet  angel ! 

Pre.  Ay,  in  truth. 

Far  better  than  you  love  yourself  or  me. 

Lara.  Give  me  some  sign  of  this, — the  slightest 
token. 

Let  me  but  kiss  your  hand  ! 

Pre.  ^ay,  come  no  nearer 

The  words  I utter  are  its  sign  and  token. 
Misunderstand  me  not ! Be  not  deceived  ! 

The  love  wherewith  I love  you  is  not  such 
As  you  would  offer  me.  For  you  come  here 
To  take  from  me  the  only  thing  I have. 

My  honor.  You  are  wealthy,  you  have  friends 
And  kindred,  and  a thousand  pleasant  hopes  , 
That  fill  your  heart  with  happiness  ; but  I 
Am  poor,,  and  friendless,  having  but  one  treasure, 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


18G 


And  you  would  take  that  from  me,  and  for  what  ? 
To  flatter  your  own  vanity,  and  make  me 
What  you  would  most  despise.  O Sir,  such  love, 
That  seeks  to  harm  me,  cannot  be  true  love 
Indeed  it  cannot.  But  my  love  for  you 
Is  of  a diflerent  kind.  It  seeks  your  good. 

It  is  a holier  feeling.  It  rebukes 

Your  earthly  passion,  your  unchaste  desires, 

And  bids  you  look  into  your  heart,  and  see 
How  you  do  wrong  that  better  nature  in  you. 

And  grieve  your  soul  with  sin. 

Lara.  I swear  to  you, 

I would  not  harm  you  ; I would  only  love  you. 

I would  not  take  your  honor,  but  restore  il. 

And  in  return  I ask  but  some  slight  mark 
Of  your  aflection.  If  indeed  you  love  me. 

As  you  confess  you  do,  O let  me  thus 
With  this  embrace 

Viet,  \_rushing  forivard.l  Hold ! hold  ! This  is 
too  much. 

What  means  this  outrage  V 
Lara.  First,  what  right  have  you 

To  question  thus  a nobleman  of  Spain  ? 

Viet.  I too  am  noble,  and  you  are  no  more  ! 
Out  of  my  sight ! 

Lara.  Are  you  the  master  here  ? 

Viet.  Ay,  here  and  elsewhere,  when  the  wrong 
of  others 

Gives  me  the  right ! 

Pre.  [to  Lara.]  Go  ! I beseech  you,  go  ! 
Viet.  I shall  have  business  with  you,  Count, 
anon  ! 

Lara.  You  cannot  come  too  soon  ! [Exit. 

Pre.  Victorian ! 

0 we  have  been  betrayed ! 

Viet.  Ha  ! ha ! betrayed  I 

T is  I have  been  betrayed,  not  we  ! — not  we  ! 

Pre.  Dost  thou  imagine 

Viet.  I imagine  nothing  ; 


190 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


I see  how ’t  is  thou  whilest  the  time  away 
When  I am  gone  ! 

Pre,  O speak  not  in  that  tone  ! 

It  wounds  me  deeply. 

Viet.  ’T  was  not  meant  to  flatter. 

Pre,  Too  well  thou  knowest  the  presence  of 
that  man 
Is  hateful  to  me ! 

Viet.  Yet  1 saw  thee  stand 

And  listen  to  him,  when  he  told  his  love. 

Pre.  I did  not  heed  his  words. 

Viet.  Indeed  thou  didst, 

And  answeredst  them  with  love. 

Pre.  Hadst  thou  heard  all 

Viet.  I heard  enough. 

Pre.  Be  not  so  angry  with  me. 

Viet.  I am  not  angry  ; I am  very  calm. 

Pre.  If  thou  wilt  let  me  speak 

Viet.  Nay,  say  no  more. 

I know  too  much  already.  Thou  art  false  ! 

I do  not  like  these  Gipsy  marriages  ! 

Where  is  the  ring  I gave  thee  ? 

Pre.  In  my  casket. 

Viet.  There  let  it  rest ! I would  not  have  thee 
wear  it; 

I thought  thee  spotless,  and  thou  art  polluted  ! 

Pre.  I call  the  heavens  to  witness 

Viet.  Nay,  nay,  nay  1 

Take  not  the  name  of  Heaven  upon  thy  lips  ! 

They  are  forsworn  ! 

Pre.  Victorian  ! dear  Victorian  ! 

Viet.  I gave  up  all  for  thee  ; myself,  my  fame, 
My  hopes  of  fortune,  ay,  my  very  soul ! 

And  thou  hast  been  my  ruin  ! Now,-  go  on  1 
Laugh  at  my  folly  with  thy  paramour. 

And,  sitting  on  the  Count  of  Lara’s  knee, 

Say  what  a poor,  fond  fool  Victorian  was ! 

[//e  casts  her  from  him  and  rushes  out.] 

Pre.  And  this  from  thee  ! 

r Scene  closes  ] 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


191 


Scene  V.  'Fhe  Count  of  Lara’s  rooms.  Enter  the 
Count. 

Lara.  There ’s  nothing  in  this  world  so  sweet 
as  love, 

And  next  to  love  the  sweetest  thing  is  hate  ! 

I ’ve  learned  to  hate,  and  therefore  am  revenged. 
A silly  girl  to  play  the  prude  with  me  ! 

The  fire  that  I have  kindled 

[Enter  Francisco  ] 

Well,  Francisco, 

What  tidings  from  Don  Juan  ? 

Fran.  Good,  my  lord  ; 

He  will  be  present. 

Lara.  And  the  Duke  of  Lerrnos  ? 

Fran.  Was  not  at  home. 

Lara.  How  with  the  rest  ? 

Fran.  I 've  found 

The  men  you  wanted.  They  will  all  be  there. 
And  at  the  given  signal  raise  a whirlwind 
Of  such  discordant  noises,  that  the  dance 
Must  cease  for  lack  of  music. 

Lara.  Bravely  done. 

Ah  ! litde  dost  thou  dream,  sweet  Preciosa, 

What  lies  in  wait  for  thee.  Sleep  shall  not  close 
Thine  eyes  this  night ! Give  me  my  cloak  and 
sword.  \_Exeunt. 

Scene  VI.  A retired  spot  beyond  the  city  gates.  Enter 
Victorian  and  Hypolito. 

Viet.  O shame  •!  O shame ! Why  do  I walk 
abroad 

By  daylight,  when  the  very  sunshine  mocks  me, 
And  voices,  and  familiar  sights  and  sounds 
Cry,  “ Hide  thyself”  ! O what  a thin  partition 
Doth  shut  out  from  the  curious  world  the  knowl- 
edge 

Of  evil  deeds  that  have  been  done  in  darkness  ! 
Disgrace  has  many  tongues.  My  fears  are  win- 
dows, 


192 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Through  which  all  eyes  seem  gazing.  Every  face 
Expresses  some  suspicion  of  my  shame, 

And  in  derision  seems  to  smile  at  me  ! 

Hyp.  Did  I not  caution  thee  ? Did  I not  tell 
thee 

I was  but  half  persuaded  of  her  virtue  ? 

Viet.  And  yet,  Hypolito,  we  may  be  wrong, 
We  may  be  over-hasty  in  condemning! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a cursed  villain. 

Hyp.  And  therefore  is  she  cursed,  loving  him. 
Viet.  She  does  not  love  him  ! ’T  is  for  gold  ! 
for  gold  ! 

Hyp.  Ay,  but  remember,  in  the  public  streets 
He  shows  a golden  ring  the  Gipsy  gave  him, 

A serpent  with  a ruby  in  its  mouth. 

Viet.  She  had  that  ring  from  me  ! God  1 she  is 
false  ! 

But  I will  be  revenged  I The  hour  is  passed. 
Where  stays  the  coward  ? 

Hyp.  Nay,  he  is  no  coward  ; 

A villain,  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  a coward. 

I Ve  seen  him  play  with  swords  ; it  is  his  pastime. 
And  therefore  be  not  over-confident. 

He  11  task  thy  skill  anon.  Look,  here  he  comes. 
\^Enter  hAUA.,  followed  by  Francisco.] 

Lara.  Good  evening,  gentlemen. 

Hyp.  Good  evening.  Count, 

Lara.  I trust  I have  not  kept  you  long  in  wait- 
ing. 

Viet.  Not  long,  and  yet  too  long.  Are  you 
prepared  ? 

Lara.  I am. 

Hyp.  It  grieves  me  much  to  see  this  quarrel 
Between  you,  gentlemen.  Is  there  no  way 
Left  open  to  accord  this  difference, 

But  you  must  make  one  with  your  swords  ? 

Viet.  No  1 none  1 

I do  entreat  thee,  dear  Hypolito, 

Stand  not  between  me  and  my  foe.  Too  long 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


193 


Our  tongues  have  spoken.  Let  these  tongues  of 
steel 

End  our  debate.  Upon  your  guard,  Sir  Count ! 

\^They fight  YiCTomA^  disai^ms  the  Count.] 

Your  life  is  mine ; and  what  shall  now  withhold  me 
From  sending  your  vile  soul  to  its  account? 

Lara,  Strike  ! strike  ! 

Viet.  You  are  disarmed.  I will  not  kill  you. 
I will  not  murder  you.  Take  up  your  sword. 
[Feancisco  hands  the  Count  his  sword,  and  Hypolitu 
interposes.] 

Hyp.  Enough ! Let  it  end  here ! The  Count 
of  Lara 

Has  shown  himself  a brave  man,  and  Victorian 
A generous  one,  as  ever.  Now  be  friends. 

Put  up  your  swords  ; for,  to  speak  frankly  to  you, 
Your  cause  of  quarrel  is  too  slight  a thing 
To  move  you  to  extremes. 

Lara.  I am  content. 

I sought  no  quarrel.  A few  hasty  words. 

Spoken  in  the  heat  of  blood,  have  led  to  this. 

Viet.  Nay,  something  more  than  that. 

Lara.  I understand  you. 

Therein  I did  not  mean  to  cross  your  path. 

To  me  the  door  stood  open,  as  to  others. 

But,  had  I known  the  girl  belonged  to  you. 

Never  would  I have  sought  to  win  her  from  you. 
The  truth  stands  now  revealed ; she  has  been  false 
To  both  of  us. 

Viet.  Ay,  false  as  hell  itself! 

Lara.  In  truth  I did  not  seek  her ; she  sought 
me ; 

And  told  me  how  to  win  her,  telling  me 
The  hours  when  she  was  often est  left  alone. 

Viet.  Say,  can  you  prove  this  to  me  ? O,  pluck 
out 

These  awful  doubts,  that  goad* me  into  madness! 
Let  me  know  all ! all ! all ! 
iMra.  You  shall  know  all. 

VOL.  I. 


13 


194 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Here  is  my  page,  who  was  the  messenger 
Between  us.  Question  him.  Was  it  not  so, 
Francisco  ? 

Fran,  Ay,  my  lord. 

Lara,  If  farther  proof 

Is  needful,  I have  here  a ring  she  gave  me. 

Viet.  Pray  let  me  see  that  ring  ! It  is  the  same  1 
[ Throws  it  upon  the  ground^  and  tramples  upon  z7.] 
Thus  may  she  perish  who  once  wore  that  ring  ! 
Thus  do  I spurn  her  from  me ; do  thus  trample 
Her  memory  in  the  dust ! O Count  of  Lara, 

We  both  have  been  abused,  been  much  abused  ! 

I thank  you  for  your  courtesy  and  frankness. 
Though,  like  the  surgeon’s  hand,  yours  gave  me 
pain. 

Yet  it  has  cured  my  blindness,  and  I thank  you. 

I now  can  see  the  folly  I have  done. 

Though ’t  is,  alas  ! too  late.  So  fare  you  well  ! 
To-night  I leave  this  hateful  town  forever. 

Regard  me  as  your  friend.  Once  more,  farewell ! 
Hyp.  Farewell,  Sir  Count. 

[^Exeunt  Victorian  and  Hypolito. 
Lara.  Farewell ! farewell ! 

Thus  have  I cleared  the  field  of  my  worst  foe  ! 

I have  none  else  to  fear ; the  fight  is  done, 

The  citadel  is  stormed,  the  victory  won  ! 

l^Exit  with  Francisco. 


Scene  VII.  A lane  in  the  suburbs.  Fight.  Enter  Cru. 
ZADO  and  Bartolome. 

Cruz.  And  so,  Bartolome,  the  expedition  failed. 
But  where  wast  thou  for  the  most  part  ? 

Bart.  In  the  Guadarrama  mountains,  near  San 
Ildefonso. 

Cruz.  And  thou  bringest  nothing  back  with 
thee  ? Didst  thou  rob  no  one  ? 

Bart.  There  was  no  one  to  rob,  save  a party  of 
.students  from  Sego\ia,  who  looked  as  if  they  would 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


195 


rob  us ; and  a jolly  little  friar,  who  had  nothing  in 
his  pockets  but  a missal  and  a loaf  of  bread. 

Cruz.  Pray,  then,  what  brings  thee  back  to 
h'ladrid  ? 

Bart.  First  tell  me  what  keeps  thee  here  ? 
Cruz.  Preciosa. 

Bart.  And  she  brings  me  back.  Hast  thou 
forgotten  thy  promise  ? 

Cruz.  The  two  years  are  not  passed  yet.  Wait 
patiently.  The  girl  shall  be  thine. 

Bart.  I hear  she  has  a Busne  lover. 

Cruz.  That  is  nothing. 

Bart.  I do  not  like  it.  I hate  him, — the  son  of 
a Busn6  harlot.  He  goes  in  and  out,  and  speaks 
with  her  alone,  and  I must  stand  aside,  and  wait 
his  pleasure. 

Cruz.  Be  patient,  I say.  Thou  shalt  have  thy 
revenge.  When  the  time  comes,  thou  shalt  way- 
lay him. 

Bart.  Meanwhile,  show  me  her  house. 

Cruz.  Come  this  way.  But  thou  wilt  not  find 
her.  She  dances  at  the  play  to-night. 

Bart.  No  matter.  Show  me  the  house.  \_Exeunt. 

Scene  VIII.  The  Theatre.  The  orchestra  i)lays  the  ea- 
ch ucha.  Sound  of  castanets  behind  the  scenes.  The 
curtain  rises,  and  discovers  Preciosa  in  the  attitude 
commencing  the  dance.  The  cachucha.  Tumuli; 
hisses  ; cries  of  “ Brava  ! ” and  “ Afuera  ! ” She  falters 
and  pauses.  The  music  stops.  General  confusion.  Pre- 
ciosa faints. 

Scene  IX.  The  Count  of  Lara’s  chambers.  Lara  and 
his  friends  at  supper. 

Lara.  So,  Caballeros,  once  more  many  thanks! 
You  have  stood  by  me  bravely  in  this  matter. 

Pray  fill  your  glasses. 

Juan.  Did  you  mark,  Don  Luis, 

How  pale  she  looked,  when  first  the  noise  began. 
And  then  stood  still,  with  her  large  eyes  dilated  ! 


106 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Her  nostrils  spread  ! her  lips  apart ! her  bosom 
Tumultuous  as  the  sea  ! 

Luis.  I pitied  her. 

Lara.  Her  pride  is  humbled : and  this  very 
night 

I mean  to  visit  her. 

Juan.  Will  you  serenade  her  ? 

Lara.  No  music  ! no  more  music  ! 

Luis.  Why  not  music  ? 

It  softens  many  hearts. 

Lara.  Not  in  the  humor 

She  now  is  in.  Music  would  madden  her. 

Juan.  Try  golden  cymbals. 

Luis.  Yes,  try  Don  Dinero, 

A mighty  wooer  is  your  Don  Dinero. 

Lara.  To  tell  the  truth,  then,  I have  bribed  her 
maid. 

But,  Caballeros,  you  dislike  this  wine. 

A bumper  and  away ; for  the  night  wears. 

A health  to  Preciosa  ! 

[ They  rise  and  drinh.^ 

All.  Preciosa. 

Lara  [holding  up  his  glass~\.  Thou  bright  and 
flaming  minister  of  Love  ! 

Thou  wonderful  magician  ! who  hast  stolen 
My  secre^;  from  me,  and  mid  sighs  of  passion 
Caught  from  my  lips,  with  red  and  fiery  tongue. 
Her  precious  name  ! O never  more  henceforth 
Shall  mortal  lips  press  thine ; and  never  more 
A mortal  name  be  whispered  in  thine  ear. 

Go  ! keep  my  secret ! 

[Drinks  and  dashes  the  goblet  down.^ 

Juan.  lie  ! missa  est  ! 

[Scene  closes.] 

Scene  X.  Street  and  garden  loall.  Night.  Enter  Cru- 
zado and  BARTOLOMk. 

Cruz.  This  is  the  garden  wall,  and  above  it 
yonder,  is  her  house.  The  window  in  which  thou 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


197 


seest  the  light  is  her  window.  But  we  will  not  go 
in  now. 

Bart.  Why  not  ? 

Cruz.  Because  she  is  not  at  home. 

Bart.  No  matter ; we  can  wait.  But  how  is 
this  ? The  gate  is  bolted.  [^Sound  of  guitars  and 
voices  in  a neighbouring  street.']  Hark  ! There 
comes  her  lover  with  his  infernal  serenade ! Hark  1 

SONG. 

Good  night ! Good  night,  beloved ! 

I come  to  watch  o’er  thee ! 

To  be  near  thee, — to  be  near  thee. 

Alone  is  peace  for  me. 

Thine  eyes  are  stars  of  morning. 

Thy  lips  are  crimson  flowers ! 

Good  night!  Good  night,  beloved, 

While  I count  the  weary  hours. 

Cruz.  They  are  not  coming  this  way. 

Bart.  Wait,  they  begin  again. 

SONG  [coming  nearer]. 

Ah  1 thou  moon  that  shinest 
Argent-clear  above! 

All  night  long  enlighten 
My  sweet  lady-love ! 

Moon  that  shinest. 

All  night  long  enlighten ! 

Bart.  Woe  be  to  him,  if  he  comes  this  way  ! 
Cruz.  Be  quiet,  they  are  passing  down  the 
street. 

SONG  [dying  away]. 

The  nuns  in  the  cloister 
Sang  to  each  other; 

For  so  many  sisters 
Is  there  not  one  brother ! 

Ay,  for  the  partridge,  mother! 

The  cat  has  run  away  with  the  partridge! 
Puss ! puss ! puss ! 


198 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Bart.  Follow  tliat ! follow  that ! Come  with 
me.  Puss!  puss! 

[Exeunt.  On  the  opposite  side  enter  the  Count  of  Lara 
and  gentlemen.,  with  Francisco.] 

Lara.  The  gate  is  fast.  Over  the  wall,  Fran- 
cisco, 

And  draw  the  bolt.  There,  so,  and  so,  and  over. 
Now,  gentlemen,  come  in,  and  help  me  scale 
Yon  balcony.  How  now  ? Her  light  still  burns. 
Move  warily.  Make  fast  the  gate,  Francisco. 
[Exeunt,  Reenter  Cruzado  owe?  Bartouome.  J 
Bart.  They  went  in  at  the  gate.  Hark  I I hear 
them  in  the  garden.  [Tries  the  gate.~\  Bolted 
again  ! Vive  Cristo  1 Follow  me  over  the  wall. 

[ They  climb  the  wall.'] 

Scene  XI.  Pkeciosa’s  bed-chamber.  Midnight.  She  is 
sleeping  in  an  arm  chair.,  in  an  undress.  Dolores 
watching  her. 

Dol.  She  sleeps  at  last  I 

[Opens  the  window  and  listens.] 

All  silent  in  the  street. 

And  in  the  garden.  Hark  ! 

Pre.  [in  her  sleep.~\  I must  go  hence  ! 

Give  me  my  cloak  I 

Dol.  He  comes  1 I hear  his  footsteps ! 

Pre,  Go  tell  them  that  I cannot  dance  to-night  ,* 
I am  too  ill  1 Look  at  me ! See  the  fever 
That  burns  upon  my  cheek  1 I must  go  hence, 

I am  too  weak  to  dance. 

[Signal from  the  garden,] 

Dol.  [from  the  ivindow~\.  Who  ^s  there  ? 
Voice  [from  below,]  A friend. 

Dol.  I will  undo  the  door.  Wait  till  I come. 
Pre.  I must  go  hence.  I pray  you  do  not  harm 
me  1 

Shame ! shame ! to  treat  a feeble  woman  thus ! 

Be  you  but  kind,  I will  do  all  things  for  you. 

I ^m  ready  now, — give  me  my  castanets. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


199 


Where  is  Victorian  ? Oh,  those  hateful  lamps  ! 
They  glare  upon  me  like  an  evil  eye. 

I cannot  stay.  Hark!  how  they  mock  at  me ! 

They  hiss  at  me  like  serpents  1 Save  me  ! save  me ! 

[She  wakes.'] 

How  late  is  it,  Dolores  ? 

Dol.  It  is  midnight. 

Pre.  We  must  be  patient.  Smooth  this  pillow 
for  me. 

[She  sleeps  agam.  Noise  from  the  garden^  and  voices.] 

Voice.  Muera ! 

Another  Voice.  O villains  ! villains  ! 

Lara.  So  ! have  at  you  1 

Voice.  Take  that ! 

Lara.  O,  I am  wounded ! 

Dol.  [shutting  the  window.']  Jesu  Maria! 


ACT  III. 


Scene  I.  A cross-road  through  a wood.  In  the  background 
a distant  village  spire.  Victorian  and  Hypolito,  as 
travelling  students.,  with  guitars^  sitting  under  the  trees. 
Hypolito  plays  and  sings. 

SONG. 

Ah,  Love! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love! 

Enemy 

Of  all  that  mankind  may  not  rue ! 

Most  untrue 

To  him  who  keeps  most  faith  with  thee. 

Woe  is  me! 

The  falcon  has  the  eyes  of  the  dove. 

Ah,  Love! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

Viet.  Yes,  Love  is  ever  busy  with  his  shuttle, 

Is  ever  weaving  into  life’s  dull  warp 


200 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Bright,  gorgeous  flowers  and  scenes  Arcadian  ; 
Hanging  our  gloomy  prison-house  about 
With  tapestries,  that  make  its  walls  dilate 
In  never-ending  vistas  of  delight. 

Hyp.  Thinking  to  walk  in  those  Arcadian  pas- 
tures, 

Thou  hast  run  thy  noble  head  against  the  wall. 

SONG  [continued]. 

Thy  deceits 

Give  us  clearly  to  comprehend, 

Whither  tend 

All  thy  pleasures,  all  thy  sweets ! 

They  are  cheats. 

Thorns  below  and  flowers  above. 

Ah,  Love ! 

Perjured,  false,  treacherous  Love ! 

Viet.  A very  pretty  song.  I thank  thee  for  it. 
Hyp.  It  suits  thy  case. 

Viet.  Indeed,  I think  it  does. 

What  wise  man  wrote  it  ? 

Hyp.  Lopez  Maldonado. 

Viet.  In  truth,  a pretty  song. 

Hyp.  With  much  truth  in  it. 

I hope  thou  wilt  profit  by  it ; and  in  earnest 
Try  to  forget  this  lady  of  thy  love. 

Viet.  I will  forget  her  ! All  dear  recollections 
Pressed  in  my  heart,  like  flowers  within  a book. 
Shall  be  torn  out,  and  scattered  to  the  winds  ! 

I will  forget  her!  But  perhaps  hereafter. 

When  she  shall  learn  how  heartless  is  the  world, 

A voice  within  her  will  repeat  my  name. 

And  she  will  say,  “ He  was  indeed  my  friend  ! ” 

O,  would  I were  a soldier,  not  a scholar. 

That  the  loud  march,  the  deafening  beat  of  drums. 
The  shattering  blast  of  the  brass-throated  trumpet, 
The  din  of  arms,  the  onslaught  and  the  storm, 

And  a swift  death,  might  make  me  deaf  forever 
To  the  upbraidings  of  this  foolish  heart  1 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


201 


Jlyp-  Then  let  that  foolish  heart  upbraid  no 
more ! 

To  conquer  love,  one  need  but  will  to  conquer. 

Viet,  Yet,  good  Hypolito,  it  is  in  vain 
1 throw  into  Oblivion’s  sea  the  sword 
That  pierces  me  ; for,  like  Excalibar, 

With  gemmed  and  flashing  hilt,  it  will  not  sink. 
There  rises  from  below  a hand  that  grasps  it. 

And  waves  it  in  the  air ; and  wailing  voices 
Are  heard  along  the  shore. 

Hyp,  And  yet  at  last 

Down  sank  Excalibar  to  rise  no  more. 

This  is  not  well.  In  truth,  it  vexes  me. 

Instead  of  whistling  to  the  steeds  of  Time, 

To  make  them  jog  on  merrily  with  life’s  burden, 
Like  a dead  weight  thou  hangest  on  the  wheels. 
Thou  art  too  young,  too  full  of  lusty  health 
To  talk  of  dying. 

Viet,  Yet  I fain  would  die  ! 

To  go  through  life,  unloving  and  unloved ; 

To  feel  that  thirst  and  hunger  of  the  soul 
We  cannot  still ; that  longing,  that  wild  impulse, 
And  struggle  after  something  we  have  not 
And  cannot  have ; the  effort  to  be  strong  ; 

And,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  to  smile,  and  smile, 
While  secret  wounds  do  bleed  beneath  our  cloaks, 
All  this  the  dead  feel  not, — the  dead  alone  ! 

Would  I were  with  them  ! 

Hyp,  We  shall  all  be  soon. 

Viet.  It  cannot  be  too  soon  ; for  I am  weary 
Of  the  bewildering  masquerade  of  Life, 

Where  strangers  walk  as  friends,  and  friends  as 
strangers ; 

Where  whispers  overheard  betray  false  hearts'; 
And  through  the  mazes  of  the  crowd  we  chase 
Some  form  of  loveliness,  that  smiles,  and  beckons. 
And  cheats  us  with  fair  words,  only  to  leave  us 
A mockery  and  a jest ; maddened, — confused, — 
Not  knowing  friend  from  foe. 


202 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Hyp.  Why  seek  to  know  ? 

Enjoy  the  merry  shrove-tide  of  thy  youth  ! 

Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  gives  itself, 

Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it. 

VicL  I confess, 

That  were  the  wiser  part.  But  Hope  no  longer 
Comforts  my  soul.  I am  a wretched  man, 

Much  like  a poor  and  shipwrecked  mariner. 

Who,  struggling  to  climb  up  into  the  boat, 

Has  both  his  bruised  and  bleeding  hands  cut  off, 
And  sinks  again  into  the  weltering  sea. 

Helpless  and  hopeless ! 

Hyp.  Yet  thou  shalt  not  perish. 

The  strength  of  thine  own  arm  is  thy  salvation. 
Above  thy  head,  through  rifted  clouds,  there  shines 
A glorious  star.  Be  patient.  Trust  thy  star  ! 
[Sound  of  a village  hell  in  the  distance  ] 

Viet.  Ave  Maria  ! I hear  the  sacristan 
Binging  the  chimes  from  yonder  village  belfry  ! 

A solemn  sound,  that  echoes  far  and  wide 
Over  the  red  roofs  of  the  cottages. 

And  bids  the  laboring  hind  a-field,  the  shepherd. 
Guarding  his  flock,  the  lonely  muleteer. 

And  all  the  crowd  in  village  streets,  stand  still. 

And  breathe  a prayer  unto  the  blessed  Virgin ! 
Hyp.  Amen  ! amen  ! Not  half  a league  from 
hence 

The  village  lies. 

Viet.  This  path  will  lead  us  to  it. 

Over  the  wheat  fields,  where  the  shadows  sail 
Across  the  running  sea,  now  green,  now  blue, 

And,  like  an  idle  mariner  on  the  main, 

Whistles  the  quail.  Come,  let  us  hasten  on. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II.  Public  square  in  the  village  of^  Guadarrama. 
7 he  Ave  Maria  still  tolling.  A crowd  of  villagers^  with 
their  hats  in  their  hands,  as  if  in  prayer.  In  front,  a 
group  of  Gipsies.  The  bell  rings  a merrier  peal.  A 
Gipsy  dance.  Enter  Pancho,  followed  by  Pedro 
Crespo. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


203 


Pan.  Make  room,  ye  vagabonds  and  Gipsy 
thieves  ! 

Make  room  for  the  Alcalde  and  for  me ! 

Cres.  Keep  silence  all ! I have  an  edict  here 
From  our  most  gracious  lord,  the  King  of  Spain, 
Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary  Islands, 

Which  I shall  publish  in  the  market-place. 

Open  your  ears  and  listen  ! 

[^Enter  the  Padre  Cura  at  the  door  of  his  cottage.'] 
Padre  Cura, 

Good  day ! and,  pray  you,  hear  this  edict  read. 
Padre.  Good  day,  and  God  be  with  you  ; Pray, 
what  is  it  ? 

Cres.  An  act  of  banishment  against  the  Gipsies  ! 

[Agitation  and  murmurs  in  the  c7^oivd.] 

Pan.  Silence ! 

Cres.  [reads.]  ‘‘  I hereby  order  and  command, 
That  the  Egyptian  and  Chaldean  strangers. 
Known  by  the  name  of  Gipsies,  shall  henceforth 
Be  banished  from  the  realm,  as  vagabonds 
And  beggars ; and  if,  after  seventy  days. 

Any  be  found  within  our  kingdom’s  bounds. 

They  shall  receive  a hundred  lashes  each ; 

The  second  time,  shall  have  their  ears  cut  off ; 

The  third,  be  slaves  for  life  to  him  who  takes  them. 
Or  burnt  as  heretics.  Signed,  I,  the  King.” 

Vile  miscreants  and  creatures  unbaptized ! 

You  hear  the  law  ! Obey  and  disappear! 

Pan.  And  if  in  seventy  days  you  are  not  gone. 
Dead  or  alive  I make  you  all  my  slaves. 

[ The  Gipsies  go  out  in  confusion.,  showing  signs  of  fear  and 
discontent.  PANCHoyb/Ws.] 

Padre.  A righteous  law  1 A very  righteous  law  1 
Pray  you,  sit  down. 

Cres.  I thank  you  heartily. 

[They  seat  themselves  on  a bench  at  the  Padre  Cura’s 
cbor.  Sound  of  guitars  heard  at  a distance.,  approaching 
during  the  dialogue  which  follows.] 


204 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


A very  righteous  judgment,  as  you  say. 

Now  tell  me,  Padre  Cura, — you  know  all  things, — 
How  came  these  Gipsies  into  Spain  ? 

Padre.  Why,  look  you ; 

They  came  with  Hercules  from  Palestine, 

And  hence  are  thieves  and  vagrants,  Sir  Alcalde, 
As  the  Simoniacs  from  Simon  Magus. 

And,  look  you,  as  Fray  Jayme  Bleda  says. 

There  are  a hundred  marks  to  prove  a Moor 
Is  not  a Christian,  so ’t  is  with  the  Gipsies. 

They  never  marry,  never  go  to  mass. 

Never  baptize  their  children,  nor  keep  Lent, 

Nor  see  the  inside  of  a church, — nor — nor — 

Cres.  Good  reasons,  good,  substantial  reasons  all ! 
No  matter  for  the  other  ninety-five. 

They  should  be  burnt,  I see  it  plain  enough. 

They  should  be  burnt. 

[Enter  Victorian  and  'Rytoiato playing.'] 
Padre.  And  pray,  whom  have  we  here  ? 

Cres.  More  vagrants ! By  Saint  Lazarus,  more 
vagrants ! 

Hyp.  Good  evening,  gentlemen  ! Is  this  Guad- 
arrama  ? 

Padre.  Yes,  Guadarrama,  and  good  evening 
to  you. 

Hyp.  We  seek  the  Padre  Cura  of  the  village  ; 
And,  judging  from  }^our  dress  and  reverend  mien. 
You  must  be  he. 

Padre.  I am.  Pray,  what ’s  your  pleasure  ? 
Hyp.  We  are  poor  students,  travelling  in  vaca- 
tion. 

You  know  this  mark  ? 

[ Touching  the  wooden  spoon  in  his  hat-band.] 

Padre  joy  fully'].  Ay,  know  it,  and  have  worn 
it. 

Cres.  \_aside.]  Soup-eaters  ! by  the  mass ! The 
worst  of  vagrants  ! 

And  there ’s  no  law  against  them.  Sir,  your  ser- 
vant. \_Exit, 

Padre.  Your  servant,  Pedro  Crespo. 


THK  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


205 


Hyp.  Padre  Cura, 

From  the  first  moment  I beheld  your  face, 

I said  within  myself,  “ This  is  the  man  ! ” 

There  is  a certain  something  in  your  looks, 

A certain  scholar-like  and  studious  something, — 
You  understand, — which  cannot  be  mistaken ; 
Which  marks  you  as  a very  learned  man. 

In  fine,  as  one  of  us. 

Viet.  [aside.~\  What  impudence  ! 

Hyp.  As  we  approached,  I said  to  my  com- 
panion, 

‘‘  That  is  the  Padre  Cura  ; mark  my  words  ! 
Meaning  your  Grace.  “ The  other  man,”  said  I, 

“ Who  sits  so  awkwardly  upon  the  bench. 

Must  be  the  sacristan.” 

Padre.  Ah  ! said  you  so  ? 

Why,  that  was  Pedro  Crespo,  the  alcalde ! 

Hyp.  Indeed  ! you  much  astonish  me  ! His  air 
Was  not  so  full  of  dignity  and  grace 
As  an  alcalde’s  should  be. 

Padre.  That  is  true. 

He  is  out  of  humor  with  some  vagrant  Gipsies, 
Who  have  their  camp  here  in  the  neighbourhood. 
There  is  nothing  so  undignified  as  anger. 

Hyp.  The  Padre  Cura  will  excuse  our  boldness, 
If,  from  his  well-known  hospitality. 

We  crave  a lodging  for  the  night. 

Padre.  I pray  you  ! 

You  do  me  honor ! I am  but  too  happy 
To  have  such  guests  beneath  my  humble  roof. 

It  is  not  often  that  I have  occasion 
To  speak  with  scholars  ; and  Emollit  mores^ 

Nec  sinit  esse  feros,  Cicero  says. 

Hyp.  ’T  is  Ovid,  is  it  not? 

Padre.  No,  Cicero. 

Hyp.  Your  Grace  is  right.  You  are  the  better 
scholar. 

Now  what  a dunce  was  I to  think  it  Ovid  I 
But  hang  me  if  it  is  not ! (^Aside.) 


206 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Padre.  Pass  this  way. 

He  was  a very  great  man,  was*  Cicero  ! 

Pray  you,  go  in,  go  in  ! no  ceremony.  [Exeunt 


Scene  III.  A room  in  the  Padre  Cura’s  house.  Enter 
the  Padre  and  Hypolito, 

Padre.  So  then,  Seiior,  you  come  from  Alcala. 
I am  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  there  I studied. 

Hyp.  And  left  behind  an  honored  name,  no 
doubt. 

How  may  I call  your  Grace  ? 

Padre.  Geronimo 

De  Santillana,  at  your  Honor’s  service. 

. Hyp.  Descended  from  the  Marquis  Santillana  ? 
From  the  distinguished  poet? 

Padre.  From  the  Marquis, 

Not  from  the  poet. 

Hyp.  Why,  they  were  the  same. 

Let  me  embrace  you ! O some  lucky  star 
Has  brought  me  hither  ! Yet  once  more ! — once 
more ! 

Your  name  is  ever  green  in  Alcala, 

And  our  professor,  when  we  are  unruly. 

Will  shake  his  hoary  head,  and  say,  “ Alas ! 

It  was  not  so  in  Santillana’s  time  ! ” 

Padre.  I did  not  think  my  name  remembered 
there. 

Hyp.  More  than  remembered  ; it  is  idolized. 
Padre.  Of  what  professor  speak  you  ? 

Hyp.  Timoneda. 

Padre.  I don’t  remember  any  Timoneda. 

Hyp.  A grave  and  sombre  man,  whose  beetling 
brow 

O’erhangs  the  rushing  current  of  his  speech 
As  rocks  o’er  rivers  hang.  Have  you  forgotten  ? 
Padre.  Indeed,  1 have.  O,  those  were  pleasant 
days. 

Those  college  days  ! I ne’er  shall  see  the  like ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


207 


I had  not  buried  then  so  many  hopes  ! 

I had  not  buried  then  so  many  friends ! 

I’ve  turned  my  back  on  what  was  then  before  me ; 
And  the  bright  faces  of  my  young  companions 
Are  wrinkled  like  my  own,  or  are  no  more. 

Do  you  remember  Cueva  ? 

Hyp.  Cueva  ? Cueva  ? 

Padre.  Fool  that  I am!  He  was  before  your 
time. 

You  ’re  a mere  boy,  and  I am  an  old  man. 

Hyp.  I should  not  like  to  try  my  strength  with 
you. 

Padre.  Well,  well.  But  I forget;  you  must  be 
hungry. 

Martina!  ho  ! Martina!  ’T  is  my  niece. 

l^Enter  Martina.] 

Hyp.  You  may  be  proud  of  such  a niece  as  that. 
1 wish  1 had  a niece.  Emollit  mores.  \_Aside. 
He  was  a very  great  man,  was  Cicero ! 

Your  servant,  fair  Martina. 

Mart.  Servant,  sir. 

Padre.  This  gentleman  is  hungry.  See  thou 
to  it. 

Let  us  have  supper. 

Mart.  ’T  will  be  ready  soon. 

Padre.  And  bring  a bottle  of  my  Val-de-Penas 
Out  of  the  cellar.  Stay ; I’ll  go  myself. 

Pray  you,  Senor,  excuse  me.  \_Exit. 

Hyp.  Hist ! Martina  ! 

One  word  with  you.  Bless  me ! what  handsome 
eyes ! 

To-day  there  have  been  Gipsies  in  the  village. 

Is  it  not  so  ? 

Mart.  There  have  been  Gipsies  here. 

Hyp.  Yes,  and  they  told  your  fortune. 

Mart.  \emharrassed.^  Told  my  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Yes,  yes;  I know  they  did.  Give  me 
your  hand. 

I’ll  tell  you  what  they  said.  They  said, — they  said, 


208 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


The  shepherd  boy  that  loved  you  was  a elown, 
And  him  you  should  not  marry.  Was  it  not? 
Mart.  [_sur prised. How  know  you  that  ? 

Hyp.  O,  I know  more  than  that, 

What  a soft,  little  hand  ! And  then  they  said, 

A cavalier  from  court,  handsome,  and  tall, 

And  rich,  should  come  one  day  to  marry  you, 

And  you  should  be  a lady.  Was  it  not  ? 

He  has  arrived,  the  handsome  cavalier. 

l^Tries  to  Mss  her.  She  runs  off . Awier  Victorian, 
a letter.'] 

Viet.  The  mulateer  has  come. 

Hyp.  So  soon  ? 

Viet.  I found  him 

Sitting  at  supper  by  the  tavern  door. 

And,  from  a pitcher  that  he  held  aloft 
His  whole  arm’s  length,  drinking  the  blood-red 
wine. 

Hyp.  What  news  from  Court  ? 

Viet.  He  brought  this  letter  only.  \^Reads.~\ 
O cui'sed  perfidy ! Why  did  I let 
That  lying  tongue  deceive  me  ! Preciosa, 

Sweet  Preciosa  ! how  art  thou  avenged  ! 

Hyp.  What  news  is  this,  that  makes  thy  cheek 
turn  pale. 

And  thy  hand  tremble  ? 

Viet.  O,  most  infamous  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara  is  a damned  villain  !- 
Hyp.  That  is  no  news,  forsooth. 

Viet.  He  strove  in  vain 

To  steal  from  me  the  jewel  of  my  soul, 

The  love  of  Preciosa.  Not  succeeding. 

He  swore  to  be  revenged  ; and  set  on  foot 
A plot  to  ruin  her,  which  has  succeeded. 

She  has  been  hissed  and  hooted  from  the  stage. 
Her  reputation  stained  by  slanderous  lies 
Too  foul  to  speak  of ; and,  once  more  a beggar, 

She  roams  a wanderer  over  God’s  green  earth. 
Housing  with  Gipsies ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


209 


Hyp.  To  renew  again 

The  Age  of  Gold,  and  make  the  shepherd  swains 
Desperate  with  love,  like  Gaspar  Gifs  Diana. 

Redit  et  Virgo  ! 

Viet.  Dear  Hypolito, 

How  have  I wronged  that  meek,  confiding  heart ! 

I will  go  seek  for  her ; and  with  my  tears 
Wash  out  the  wrong  IVe  done  her ! 

Hyp,  O beware ! 

Act  not  that  folly  o’er  again. 

Viet.  Ay,  folly, 

Delusion,  madness,  call  it  what  thou  wilt, 

1 will  confess  my  weakness, — I still  love  her  ! 

Still  fondly  love  her ! 

{Enter  the  Padre  Cura.] 

Hyp.  Tell  us,  Padre  Cura, 

Who  are  these  Gipsies  in  the  neighbourhood? 
Padre.  Beltran  Cruzado  and  his  crew. 

Viet.  Kind  Heaven, 

I thank  thee  ! She  is  found ! is  found  again  ! 
Hyp.  And  have  they  with  them  a pale,  beauti- 
ful girl. 

Called  Preciosa  ? 

Padre.  Ay,  a pretty  girl. 

The  gentleman  seems  moved. 

Hyp.  Yes,  moved  with  hunger, 

He  is  half  famished  with  this  long  day’s  journey. 
Padre.  Then,  pray  you,  come  this  way.  The 
supper  waits.  [_Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.  A post-house  on  the  road  to  Segovia.,  not  far 
from  the  village  of  Guadarrama.  Enter  Chispa,  crack- 
ing a whip  and  singing  the  Cachucha. 

Chis.  Halloo!  Don  Fulano  1 Let  us  have  horses, 
and  quickly.  Alas,  poor  Chispa!  what  a dog’s 
life  dost  thou  lead ! 1 thought,  when  I left  my 

old  master  Victorian,  the  student,  to  serve  my 
new  master  Don  Carlos,  the  gentleman,  that  1,  too, 
should  lead  the  life  of  a gentleman  ; should  go  to 
VOL.  I.  14 


210 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


bed  early,  and  get  up  late.  For  when  the  abbot 
plays  cards,  what  can  you  expect  of  the  friars? 
But,  in  running  away  from  the  thunder,  I have  run 
into  the  lightning.  Here  I am  in  hot  chase  after 
my  master  and  his  Gipsy  girl.  And  a good  be- 
ginning of  the  week  it  is,  as  he  said  who  was  hanged 
on  Monday  morning. 

l^Enter  Don  Carlos,  j 

Carlos.  Are  not  the  horses  ready  yet  ? 

Chis.  I should  think  not,  for  the  hostler  seems  to 
be  asleep.  Ho  ! within  there  ! Horses ! horses  ! 
horses!  [_He  knocks  at  the  gate  with  his  lohip^  and 
enter  Mosquito,  on  his  jacket.'] 

Mos.  Pray,  have  a little  patience.  I ’m  not  a 
musket. 

Chis.  Health  and  pistareens  1 I ’m  glad  to  see 
you  come  on  dancing,  padre  I Pray,  what  ^s  the 
news  ? 

Mos.  You  cannot  have  fresh  horses ; because 
there  are  none. 

Chis,  Cachiporra ! Throw  that  bone  to  another 
dog. 

Do  I look  like  your  aunt  ? 

Mos,  No ; she  has  a beard. 

Chis.  Go  to ! Go  to  I 

Mos.  Are  you  from  Madrid  ? 

Chis.  Yes ; and  going  to  Estramadura.  Get  us 
horses. 

Mos.  What's  the  news  at  Court? 

Chis.  Why,  the  latest  news  is,  that  I am  going 
to  set  up  a coach,  and  I have  already  bought  the 
whip. 

[Strikes  him  round  the  legs.] 

Mos.  Oh  1 oh  I you  hurt  me  ! 

Carlos.  Enough  of  this  folly.  Let  us  have 
horses.  \_Gives  money  to  Mosquito.]  It  is  almost 
dark ; and  we  are  in  haste.  But  tell  me,  has  a 
band  of  Gipsies  passed  this  way  of  late  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


211 


Mos.  Yes ; and  they  are  still  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. 

Carlos.  And  where  ? 

Mos.  Across  the  fields  yonder,  in  the  woods 
near  Guadarrama.  \_Exit. 

Carlos.  Now  this  is  lucky.  We  will  visit  the 
Gipsy  camp. 

Chis.  Are  you  not  afraid  of  the  evil  eye  ? 

Have  you  a stag’s  horn  with  you  ? 

Carlos.  Fear  not.  We  will  pass  the  night  at 
the  village. 

Chis.  And  sleep  like  the  Squires  of  Hernan 
Daza,  nine  under  one  blanket. 

Carlos.  I hope  we  may  find  the  Preciosa  among 
them. 

Chis.  Among  the  Squires  ? 

Carlos.  No ; among  the  Gipsies,  blockhead ! 
Chis.  I hope  we  may ; for  we  are  giving  our- 
selves trouble  enough  on  her  account.  Don’t  you 
think  so  ? However,  there  is  no  catching  trout 
without  wetting  one’s  trowsers.  Yonder  come  the 
horses.  [_Exeunt. 

Scene  V.  The  Gipsy  camp  in  thefoi'est.  Night.  Gipsies 
working  at  a forge.  Others  playing  cards  by  the  fire- 
light. 

GIPSIES  \^at  the  forge  singl. 

On  the  top  of  a mountain  I stand, 

With  a crown  of  red  gold  in  my  hand, 

Wild  Moors  come  trooping  over  the  lea, 

0 how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee,  flee,  flee? 

0 how  from  their  fury  shall  I flee  ? 

Gipsy  [playing'].  Down  with  your  John- 
Dorados,  my  pigeon. 

Down  with  your  John-Dorados,  and  let  us  make 
an  end. 

GIPSIES  [at  the  forge  sing. '\ 

Loud  sang  the  Spanish  cavalier, 
x\nd  thus  his  ditty  ran ; 

God  send  the  Gipsy  lassie  here, 

And  not  the  Gipsy  man. 


212 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


1st  Gipsy  playing'].  There  you  are  in  your 
morocco. 

2d  Gipsy.  One  more  game.  The  Alcalde’s 
doves  against  the  Padre  Cura’s  new  moon. 
1st  Gipsy.  Have  at  you,  Chirelin. 

GIPSIES  \at  the  forge  sing']. 

. At  midnight,  when  the  moon  began 
To  show  her  silver  flame, 

There  came  to  him  no  Gipsy  man, 

The  Gipsy  lassie  came. 

l^Enter  Beltran  Cruzado.  ] 

Cruz.  Come  hither,  Murcigalleros  and  Ras- 
tilleros;  leave  work,  leave  play;  listen  to  your 
orders  for  the  night.  [^Speaking  to  the  right.]  You 
will  get  you  to  the  village,  mark  you,  by  the  stone 
cross. 

Gipsies.  Ay ! 

Cruz.  \to  the  left.]  And  you,  by  the  pole 
with  the  hermit’s  head  upon  it. 

Gipsies.  Ay ! 

Cruz.  As  soon  as  you  see  the  planets  are 
out,  in  with  you,  and  be  busy  with  the  ten  com- 
mandments, under  the  sly,  and  Saint  Martin  asleep. 
D’  ye  hear? 

Gipsies.  Ay ! 

Cruz.  Keep  your  lanterns  open,  and,  if  you 
see  a goblin  or  a papagayo,  take  to  your  trampers. 
“ Vineyards  and  Dancing  John  ” is  the  word.  Am 
I comprehended  ? 

Gipsies.  Ay ! ay  ! 

Cruz.  Away,  then ! 

[Exeunt  severally.  Cruzado  loalks  up  the  stage  and  dis- 
appears among  the  trees.  Enter  Preciosa.] 

Pre.  How  strangely  gleams  through  the  gigan- 
tic trees 

The  red  light  of  the  forge ! Wild,  beckoning 
shadows  . 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


213 


Stalk  through  the  forest,  ever  and  anon 
Rising  and  bending  with  the  flickering  flame, 

Then  flitting  into  darkness  ! So  within  me 
Strange  hopes  and  fears  do  beckon  to  each  other, 
My  brightest  hopes  giving  dark  fears  a being 
As  the  light  does  the  shadow.  Woe  is  me  I 
How  still  it  is  about  me,  and  how  lonely ! 

[Bartolomei  rushes  in.^ 

Bart.  Ho  ! Preciosa  ! 

Pre.  O,  Bartolome  ! 

Thou  here  ? 

Bart.  Lo  ! lam  here. 

Pre.  Whence  comest  thou  ? 

Bart.  From  the  rough  ridges  of  the  wild 
Sierra, 

From  caverns  in  the  rocks,  from  hunger,  thirst. 
And  fever  ! Like  a wild  wolf  to  the  sheepfold. 
Come  I for  thee,  my  lamb. 

Pre,  O touch  me  not ! 

The  Count  of  Lara’s  blood  is  on  thy  hands  ! 

The  Count  of  Lara’s  curse  is  on  thy  soul ! 

Do  not  come  near  me ! Pray,  begone  from 
here  ! 

Thou  art  in  danger ! They  have  set  a price 
Upon  thy  head ! 

Bart.  Ay,  and  I ’ve  wandered  long 

Among  the  mountains ; and  for  many  days 
Have  seen  no  human  face,  save  the  rough  swine- 
herd’s. 

The  wind  and  rain  have  been  my  sole  companions. 
I shouted  to  them  from  the  rocks  thy  name. 

And  the  loud  echo  sent  it  back  to  me. 

Till  I grew  mad.  I could  not  stay  from  thee. 

And  I am  here ! Betray  me,  if  thou  wilt. 

Pre.  Betray  thee  ? I betray  thee  ? 

Bart.  Preciosa  I 

1 come  for  thee ! for  thee  I thus  brave  death  ! 

Fly  with  me  o’er  the  borders  of  this  realm ! 

Fly  with  me ! 


214 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Pre.  Speak  of  that  no  more.  I cannot. 

I am  thine  no  longer. 

Bart.  O,  recall  the  time 

When  we  were  children  ! how  we  played  together, 
How  we  grew  up  together ; how  we  plighted 
Our  hearts  unto  each  other,  even  in  childhood ! 
Fulfil  thy  promise,  for  the  hour  has  come. 

I am  hunted  from  the  kingdom,  like  a wolf ! 

Fulfil  thy  promise. 

Pre.  ’T  was  my  father’s  promise, 

Not  mine.  I never  gave  my  heart  to  thee. 

Nor  promised  thee  my  hand  ! 

Bart.  False  tongue  of  woman! 

And  heart  more  false  ! 

Pre.  Nay,  listen  unto  me. 

I will  speak  frankly.  I have  never  loved  thee ; 

I cannot  love  thee.  This  is  not  my  fault. 

It  is  my  destiny.  Thou  art  a man 

Restless  and  violent.  What  wouldst  thou  with  me, 

A feeble  girl,  who  have  not  long  to  live, 

Whose  heart  is  broken  ? Seek  another  wife, 
Better  than  I,  and  fairer ; and  let  not 
Thy  rash  and  headlong  moods  estrange  her  from  thee. 
Thou  art  unhappy  in  this  hopeless  passion. 

I never  sought  thy  love ; never  did  aught 
To  make  thee  love  me.  Yet  I pity  thee, 

And  most  of  all  I pity  thy  wild  heart. 

That  hurries  thee  to  crimes  and  deeds  of  blood. 
Beware,  beware  of  that. 

Bart.  For  thy  dear  sake, 

I will  be  gentle.  Thou  shalt  teach  me  patience. 

Pre.  Then  take  this  farewell,  and  depart  in  peace. 
Thou  must  not  linger  here. 

Bart.  Come,  come  with  me. 

Pre.  Hark  ! I hear  footsteps. 

Bart.  I entreat  thee,  come ! 

Pre.  Away  ! It  is  in  vain. 

Bart.  Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

Pre.  Never ! 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


215 


Bart.  Then  woe,  eternal  woe,  upon  thee  ! 

Thou  shalt  not  be  another’s.  Thou  shalt  die.  \_Exit. 

Pre.  All  holy  angels  keep  me  in  this  hour ! 
Spirit  of  her  who  bore  me,  look  upon  me  ! 

Mother  of  God,  the  glorified,  protect  me  ! 

Christ  and  the  saints,  be  merciful  unto  me  ! 

Yet  why  should  I fear  death  ? What  is  it  to  die  ? 
To  leave  all  disappointment,  care,  and  sorrow. 

To  leave  all  falsehood,  treachery,  and  unkindness. 
All  ignominy,  suffering,  and  despair. 

And  be  at  rest  for  ever ! O,  dull  heart, 

Be  of  good  cheer  1 When  thou  shalt  cease  to  beat. 
Then  shalt  thou  cease.to  suffer  and  complain  ! 
[^Enter  Victorian  and  Hypolito  behind.^ 

Viet  ’T  is  she  ! Behold,  how  beautiful  she  stands 
Under  the  tent-like  trees ! 

Hyp.  A woodland  nymph  ! 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  stand  aside.  Leave  me. 

Hyp.  Be  wary. 

Do  not  betray  thyself  too  soon. 

Viet,  [^disguising  his  voice.~\  Hist ! Gipsy ! 

Pre.  [aside.,  with  emotion.~\  That  voice ! that  voice 
from  heaven ! O speak  again  ! 

Who  is  it  calls  ? 

Viet  A friend. 

Pre.  [aside.~\  ’T  is  he  ! ’T  is  he  ! 

1 thank  thee,  Heaven,  that  thou  hast  heard  my 
prayer. 

And  sent  me  this  protector ! Now  be  strong. 

Be  strong,  my  heart ! I must  dissemble  here. 

False  friend  or  true  ? 

Viet.  A true  friend  to  the  true ; 

Fear  not;  come  hither.  So;  can  you  tell  fortunes? 

Pre.  Not  in  the  dark.  Come  nearer  to  the  fire. 
Give  me  your  hand.  It  is  not  crossed,  I see. 

Viet,  [^putting  a pieee  of  gold  into  her  hand.~\  There 
is  the  cross. 

Is ’t  silver  ? 


Pre. 

Viet. 


No,  ’t  is  gold. 


216 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Pre.  There  "s  a fair  lady  at  the  Court,  who  loves 
you, 

And  for  yourself  alone. 

Viet.  Fie  ! the  old  story ! 

Tell  me  a better  fortune  for  my  money ; 

Not  this  old  woman’s  tale  ! 

Pre.  You  are  passionate ; 

And  this  same  passionate  humor  in  your  blood  ' 
Has  marred  your  fortune.  Yes  ; I see  it  now ; 

The  line  of  life  is  crossed  by  many  marks. 

Shame ! shame ! O you  have  wronged  the  maid 
who  loved  you  ! 

How  could  you  do  it  ? 

Viet.  I never  loved  a maid ; 

For  she  I loved  was  then  a maid  no  more. 

Pre.  How  know  you  that  ? 

Viet.  A little  bird  in  the  air 

Whispered  the  secret. 

Pre.  There,  take  back  your  gold ! 

Your  hand  is  cold,  like  a deceiver’s  hand ! 

There  is  no  blessing  in  its  charity ! 

Make  her  your  wife,  for  you  have  been  abused ; 
And  you  shall  mend  your  fortunes,  mending  hers. 
Viet.  \_aside.~\  How  hke  an  angel’s  speaks  the 
tongue  of  woman. 

When  pleading  in  another’s  cause  her  o.wn  ! 

That  is  a pretty  ring  upon  your  finger. 

Pray  give  it  me.  [ Tries  to  take  the  ring.~\ 

Pre.  No ; never  from  my  hand 

Shall  that  be  taken ! 

Viet.  Why,  ’t  is  but  a ring. 

I ’ll  give  it  back  to  you ; or,  if  I keep  it. 

Will  give  you  gold  to  buy  you  twenty  such. 

Pre.  Why  would  you  have  this  ring  ? 

Viet.  A traveller’s  fancy, 

A whim,  and  nothing  more.  I would  fain  keep  it 
As  a memento  of  the  Gipsy  camp 
In  Guadarrama,  and  the  fortune-teller 
Who  sent  me  back  to  wed  a widowed  maid. 

Pray,  let  me  have  the  ring. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


217 


Pre.  * No,  never ! never 

I will  not  part  with  it,  even  when  I die  ; 

But  bid  my  nurse  fold  my  pale  fingers  thus. 

That  it  may  not  fall  from  them.  ’ T is  a token 
Of  a beloved  friend,  who  is  no  more. 

VicL  How  ? dead  ? 

Pre.  Yes  ; dead  to  me ; and  worse  than  dead. 
He  is  estranged  ! And  yet  I keep  this  ring. 

I will  rise  with  it  from  my  grave  hereafter. 

To  prove  to  him  that  I was  never  false. 

Viet.  [aside.~\  Be  still,  my  swelling  heart ! one 
moment,  still ! 

Why,  ’t  is  the  folly  of  a love-sick  girl. 

Come,  give  it  me,  or  I will  say ’t  is  mine. 

And  that  you  stole  it. 

Pre.  O,  you  will  not  dare 

To  utter  such  a fiendish  lie  ! ' 

Viet.  Not  dare  ? 

Look  in  my  face,  and  say  if  there  is  aught 
I have  not  dared,  I would  not  dare  for  thee  ! 

rushes  into  his  arms.'] 

Pre.  ’Tis  thou!  T is  thou!  Yes;  yes;  my 
heart’s  elected  ! 

My  dearest-dear  Victorian  ! my  soul’s  heaven  ! 
Where  hast  thou  been  so  long  ? Why  didst  thou 
leave  me  ? 

Viet.  Ask  me  not  now^  my  dearest  Preciosa. 
Let  me  forget  we  ever  have  been  parted ! 

Pre.  Hadst  thou  not  come 

Viet.  I pray  thee,  do  not  chide  me  ! 

Pre.  I should  have  perished  here  among  these 
Gipsies. 

Viet.  Forgive  me,  sweet!  for  what  I made  thee 
suffer. 

Think’st  thou  this  heart  could  feel  a moment’s  joy. 
Thou  being  absent  ? O,  believe  it  not ! 

Indeed,  since  that  sad  hour  I have  not  slept, 

For  thinking  of  the  wrong  I did  to  thee ! 

Dost  thou  forgive  me  ? Say,  wilt  thou  forgive  me  ? 


218 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Pre.  I have  forgiven  thee.  Ere  those  words 
of  anger 

Were  in  the  book  of  Heaven  writ  down  against 
thee, 

I had  forgiven  thee. 

Viet.  I ’m  the  veriest  fool 

That  walks  the  earth,  to  have  believed  thee  false. 

It  was  the  Count  of  Lara 

Pre.  That  bad  man 

Has  worked  me  harm  enough.  Hast  thou  not 
heard  

Viet.  I have  heard  all.  And  yet  speak  on, 
speak  on  ! 

Let  me  but  hear  thy  voice,  and  I am  happy ; 

For  every  tone,  like  some  sweet  incantation. 

Calls  up  the  buried  past  to  plead  for  me. 

Speak,  my  beloved,  speak  into  my  heart. 

Whatever  fills  and  agitates  thine  own. 

[ They  loalk  aside.  ] 

Hyp.  AU  gentle  quarrels  in  the  pastoral  poets, 
All  passionate  love  scenes  in  the  best  romances. 

All  chaste  embraces  on  the  public  stage. 

All  soft  adventures,  which  the  liberal  stars 
Have  winked  at,  as  the  natural  course  of  things, 
Have  been  surpassed  here  by  my  friend,  the  stu- 
dent. 

And  this  sweet  Gipsy  las.s,  fair  Preciosa ! 

Pre.  Senor  Hyj)olito ! 1 kiss  your  hand. 

Pray,  shall  I tell  your  fortune  ? 

Hyp.  Not  to-night ; 

For,  should  you  treat  me  as  you  did  Victorian, 

And  send  me  back  to  marry  maids  forlorn. 

My  wedding  day  would  last  from  now  till  Christmas. 
Chis.  \_within.'\  What  ho  ! the  Gipsies,  ho  ! Bel- 
tran Cruzado  ! 

Halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo  ! halloo  ! 

{Enters  hooted^  with  a whip  and  lantern.'] 

Viet.  What  now  ? 

Why  such  a fearful  din  ? Hast  thou  been  robbed  ? 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


219 


Chis.  Ay,  robbed  and  murdered ; and  good 
evening  to  you, 

My  worthy  masters. 

Viet.  Speak  ; what  brings  thee  here  V 

Chis.  \to  Preciosa.']  Good  news  from  Court ; 
good  news ! Beltran  Cruzado, 

The  Count  of  the  Cales,  is  not  your  father. 

But  your  true  father  has  returned  to  Spain 
Laden  with  wealth.  You  are  no  more  a Gipsy. 
Viet.  Strange  as  a Moorish  tale  ! 

Chis.  And  we  have  all 

Been  drinking  at  the  tavern  to  your  health. 

As  wells  drink  in  November,  when  it  rains. 

Viet.  Where  is  the  gentleman  ? 

Chis.  As  the  old  song  says, 

His  body  is  in  Segovia, 

His  soul  is  in  Madrid. 

Pre.  Is  this  a dream  ? O,  if  it  be  a dream, 

Let  me  sleep  on,  and  do  not  wake  me  yet ! 

Bepeat  thy  story  ! Say  I ’m  not  deceived  ! 

Say  that  I do  not  dream  ! I am  awake  ; 

This  is  the  Gipsy  camp  ; this  is  Victorian, 

And  this  his  friend,  Hypolito  ! Speak  ! speak  ! 
Let  me  not  wake  and  find  it  all  a dream  ! 

Viet.  It  is  a dream,  sweet  child ! a waking 
dream, 

A blissful  certainty,  a vision  bright 
Of  that  rare  happiness,  which  even  on  earth 
Heaven  gives  to  those  it  loves.  Now  art  thou 
rich. 

As  thou  wast  ever  beautiful  and  good  ; 

And  I am  now  the  beggar. 

Pre.  \_giving  him  her  hand.'\  I have  still 
A hand  to  give. 

Chis.  [aside.']  And  I have  two  to  take. 

I Ve  heard  my  grandmother  say,  that  Heaven  gives 
almonds 

To  those  who  have  no  teeth.  That ’s  nuts  to  crack. 
I ’ve  teeth  to  spare,  but  where  shall  I find  almonds  V 


220 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet  What  more  of  this  strange  story  ? 

Chis.  Nothing  more. 

Your  friend,  Don  Carlos,  is  now  at  the  village 
Showing  to  Pedro  Crespo,  the  Alcalde, 

The  proofs  of  what  I tell  you.  The  old  hag. 

Who  stole  you  in  your  childhood,  has  confessed ; 
And  probably  they  'll  hang  her  for  the  crime, 

To  make  the  celebration  more  complete. 

Viet  No ; let  it  be  a day  of  general  joy ; 
Fortune  comes  well  to  all,  that  comes  not  late. 

Now  let  us  join  Don  Carlos. 

Hyp.  So  farewell. 

The  students  wandering  life  ! Sweet  serenades, 
Sung  under  ladies*  windows  in  the  night, 

And  all  that  makes  vacation  beautiful ! 

To  you,  ye  cloistered  shades  of  Alcala, 

To  you,  ye  radiant  visions  of  romance. 

Written  in  books,  but  here  surpassed  by  truth. 

The  Bachelor  Hypolito  returns. 

And  leaves  the  Gipsy  with  the  Spanish  Student. 

Scene  VI.  A pass  in  the  Guadarrama  mountains.  Early 
morning.  A muleteer  crosses  the  stage^  sitting  sideways 
on  his  mule,  and  lighting  a paper  cigar  with  Jlint  and 
steel. 

SONG. 

If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

Awake  and  open  thy  door, 

’T  is  the  break  of  day,  and  we  must  away, 

O’er  meadow,  and  mount,  and  moor. 

Wait  not  to  find  thy  slippers. 

But  come  with  thy  naked  feet; 

We  shall  have  to  pass  through  the  dewy  grass, 
And  waters  wide  and  fieet. 

]_Disappea7's  down  the  pass.  Enter  a Monk.  A Shepherd 
appears  on  the  rocks  above.  ] 

Monk.  Ave  Maria,  gratia  plena.  016,!  good 
man  ! 

Shep.  Ola  I 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


221 


Monk.  Is  this  the  road  to  Segovia  ? 

Shep.  It  is,  your  reverence. 

Monk.  How  far  is  it  ? 

Shep.  I do  not  know. 

Monk.  What  is  that  yonder  in  the  valley  ? 

Shep.  San  Ildefonso. 

Monk.  A long  way  to  breakfast. 

Shep.  Ay,  marry. 

Monk.  Are  there  robbers  in  these  mountaiiiS  ? 
Shep.  Yes,  and  worse  than  that. 

Monk.  What  ? 

Shep.  Wolves. 

Monk.  Santa  Maria!  Come  with  me  to  San 
Ildefonso,  and  thou  shalt  be  well  rewarded. 

Shep.  What  will  thou  give  me  ? 

Monk.  An  Agnus  Dei  and  my  benediction. 

[ They  disappear.  A mounted  Contrabandista  passes,  wrap>- 
pea  in  his  cloaJc,  and  a gun  at  his  saddle-how.  He  goes 
down  the  pass  singing.^ 

SONG. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 

And  I march  me  hurried,  worried ; 

Onward,  caballito  mio, 

\Yith  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead ! 

Onward,  for  here  comes  the  Ronda, 

And  I hear  their  rifles  crack ! 

Ay,  jal^o!  Ay,  ay,  jal4o! 

Ay,  jal^o ! They  cross  our  track. 

[Song  dies  away.  Enter  Preciosa,  on  horseback,  attended 
% Victorian,  Hypolito,  Don  Carlos,  and  Chispa, 
on  foot^  and  armed. 1 

Viet.  This  is  the  highest  point.  Here  let  us 
rest. 

See,  Preciosa,  see  how  all  about  us 

Kneeling,  like  hooded  friars,  the  misty  mountains 

Receive  the  benediction  of  the  sun  ! 

O glorious  sight  1 

Pre.  Most  beautiful  indeed  1 

Hyp.  Most  wonderful ! 


222 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


Viet.  And  in  the  vale  belov, 

Where  yonder  steeples  flash  like  lifted  halberds, 
San  Ildefonso,  from  its  noisy  belfries, 

Sends  up  a salutation  to  the  morn, 

As  if  an  army  smote  their  brazen  shields. 

And  shouted  victory ! 

Pre.  And  which  way  lies 

Segovia  ? 

Viet.  At  a great  distance  yonder. 

Dost  thou  not  see  it? 

Pre.  No.  I do  not  see  it. 

Viet.  The  merest  flaw  that  dents  the  horizon’s 
edge. 

There,  yonder ! 

Hyp.  ’T  is  a notable  old  town. 

Boasting  an  ancient  Roman  aqueduct. 

And  an  Alcazar,  bullded  by  the  Moors, 

Wherein,  you  may  remember,  poor  Gil  Bias 
Was  fed  on  Pan  del  Rey.  O,  many  a time 
Out  of  its  grated  windows  have  I looked 
Hundreds  of  feet  plumb  down  to  the  Eresma, 

That,  like  a serpent  through  the  valley  creeping, 
Glides  at  its  foot. 

Pre.  O,  yes ! I see  it  now. 

Yet  rather  with  my  heart,  than  with  mine  eyes. 

So  faint  it  is.  And,  all  my  thoughts  sail  thither. 
Freighted  with  prayers  and  hopes,  and  forward 
urged 

Against  all  stress  of  accident,  as,  in 
The  Eastern  Tale,  against  the  wind  and  tide, 
Great  ships  were  drawn  to  the  Magnetic  Mountains, 
And  there  were  wrecked,  and  perished  in  the 
sea!  \_She  weeps. 

Viet.  O gentle  spirit!  Thou  didst  bear  un- 
moved 

Blasts  of  adversity  and  frosts  of  fate ! 

But  the  first  ray  of  sunshine  that  falls  on  thee 
Melts  thee  to  tears ! O,  let  thy  weary  heart 
Lean  upon  mine  ! and  it  shall  faint  no  more. 


THE  SPANISH  STUDENT. 


223 


Nor  thirst,  nor  hunger ; but  be  comforted 
And  filled  with  my  affection. 

Pre.  Stay  no  longer ! 

My  father  waits.  Methinks  I see  him  there, 

Now  looking  from  the  window,  and  now  watching 
Each  sound  of  wheels  or  foot-fall  in  the  street. 

And  saying,  “ Hark  ! she  comes ! ” O father ! father ! 
[ They  descend  the  pass.  Chispa  remains  behind.'] 
Chis.  I have  a father,  too,  but  he  is  a dead  one. 
Alas  and  alack-a-day ! Poor  was  I born,  and  poor 
do  I remain.  I neither  win  nor  lose.  Thus  I wag 
through  the  world,  half  the  time  on  foot,  and  the 
other  half  walking;  and  always  as  merry  as  a 
thunder-storm  in  the  night.  And  so  we  plough 
along,  as  the  fly  said  to  the  ox.  Who  knows  what 
may  happen  ? Patience,  and  shuffle  the  cards  ! I 
am  not  yet  so  bald,  that  you  can  see  my  brains ; 
and  perhaps,  after  all,  I shall  some  day  go  to  Pome, 
and  come  back  Saint  Peter.  Benedicite ! 

[A  pause.  Then  enter  BARTonoMk  2uildly,  as  if  in  pursuit.^ 
with  a carbine  in  his  hand!] 

Bart  They  passed  this  way ! I hear  their 
horses  hoofs ! 

Yonder  I see  them  ! Come,  sweet  caramillo. 

This  serenade  shall  be  the  Gipsy’s  last ! 

[Fires  dawn  the  pass.] 

Ha!  ha!  Well  whistled,  my  sweet  caramillo! 

Well  whistled! — I have  missed  her! — O,  my  God! 
[ The  shot  is  returned.  BARTOLOM^ya/&.] 


THE 


BELFRY  OF  BRUGES 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS. 

1846. 


VOL.  I.  15  (225) 


CARILLON. 


In  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city, 

As  the  evening  shades  descended, 
Low  and  loud  and  sweetly  blended, 
Low  at  times  and  loud  at  times. 

And  changing  like  a poet’s  rhymes. 
Rang  the  beautiful  wild  chimes, 

From  the  Belfry  in  the  market 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

Then,  with  deep  sonorous  clangor 
Calmly  answering  their  sweet  anger. 
When  the  wrangling  bells  had  ended, 
Slowly  struck  the  clock  eleven, 

And,  from  out  the  silent  heaven, 
Silence  on  the  town  descended. 
Silence,  silence  everywhere. 

On  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

Save  that  footsteps  here  and  there 
Of  some  burgher  home  returning. 

By  the  street  lamps  faintly  burning, 
For  a moment  woke  the  echoes 
Of  the  ancient  town  of  Bruges. 

But  amid  my  broken  slumbers 
Still  I heard  those  magic  numbers. 

As  they  loud  proclaimed  the  flight 
And  stolen  marches  of  the  night ; 

Till  their  chimes  in  sweet  collision 
(227) 


228 


POEMS. 


Mingled  with  each  wandering  vision, 
Mingled  with  the  fortune-telling 
Gipsy-bands  of  dreams  and  fancies, 
Which  amid  the  waste  expanses 
Of  the  silent  land  of  trances 
Have  their  solitary  dwelling. 

All  else  seemed  asleep  in  Bruges, 

In  the  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 

And  I thought  how  like  these  chimes 
Are  the  poet^s  airy  rhymes, 

All  his  rhymes  and  roundelays. 

His  conceits,  and  songs,  and  ditties, 

From  the  belfry  of  his  brain, 

Scattered  downward,  though  in  vain, 

On  the  roofs  and  stones  of  cities ! 

For  by  night  the  drowsy  ear 
Under  its  curtains  cannot  hear, 

And  by  day  men  go  their  ways, 

Hearing  the  music  as  they  pass, 

But  deeming  it  no  more,  alas ! 

Than  the  hollow  sound  of  brass. 

Yet  perchance  a sleepless  wight, 

Lodging  at  some  humble  inn 
In  the  narrow  lanes  of  life. 

When  the  dusk  and  hush  of  night 
Shut  out  the  incessant  din 
Of  daylight  and  its  toil  and  strife. 

May  listen  with  a calm  delight 
To  the  poet's  melodies. 

Till  he  hears,  or  dreams  he  hears. 
Intermingled  with  the  song. 

Thoughts  that  he  has  cherished  long ; 
Hears  amid  the  chime  and  singing 
The  bells  of  his  own  village  ringing, 

And  wakes,  and  finds  his  slumberous  eyes 
Wet  with  most  delicious  tears. 

Thus  dreamed  I,  as  by  night  I lay 


CARILLON. 


229 


In  Bruges,  at  the  Fleur-de-Bl^, 
Listening  with  a wild  delight 
To  the  chimes  that,  through  the  night, 
Rang  their  changes  from  the  Belfry 
Of  that  quaint  old  Flemish  city. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


In  the  market-place  of  Bruges  stands  the  belfry 
old  and  brown ; 

Thrice  consumed  and  thrice  rebuilded,  still  it 
watches  o’er  the  town. 

As  the  summer  morn  was  breaking,  on  that  lofty 
tower  I stood, 

And  the  world  threw  off  the  darkness,  like  the 
weeds  of  widowhood. 

Thick  with  towns  and  hamlets  studded,  and  with 
streams  and  vapors  gray, 

Like  a shield  embossed  with  silver,  round  and 
vast  the  landscape  lay. 

At  my  feet  the  city  slumbered.  From  its  chim- 
neys, here  and  there, 

Wreaths  of  snow-white  smoke,  ascending,  van- 
ished, ghost-like,  into  air. 

Not  a sound  rose  from  the  city  at  that  early 
morning  hour, 

But  I heard  a heart  of  iron  beating  in  the  ancient 
tower. 

From  their  nests  beneath  the  ratters  sang  the 
swallows  wild  and  high  ; 

And  the  world,  beneath  me  sleeping,  seemed 
more  distant  than  the  sky. 

(233) 


234 


POEMS. 


Then  most  musical  and  solemn,  bringing  back  the 
olden  times, 

With  their  strange,  unearthly  changes  rang  the 
melancholy  chimes. 

Like  the  psalms  from  some  old  cloister,  when  the 
nuns  sing  in  the  choir ; 

And  the  great  bell  tolled  among  .them,  like  the 
chanting  of  a friar. 

Visions  of  the  days  departed,  shadowy  phantoms 
filled  my  brain ; 

They  who  live  in  history  only  seemed  to  walk  the 
earth  again  ; 

All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders, — mighty  Baldwin 
Bras  de  Fer, 

Lyderick  du  Bucq  and  Cressy,  Philip,  Guy  de 
Dampierre. 

I beheld  the  pageants  splendid,  that  adorned  those 
days  of  old  ; 

Stately  dames,  like  queens  attended,  knights  who 
bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold ; 

Lombard  and  Venetian  merchants  with  deep-laden 
argosies ; 

Ministers  from  twenty  nations ; more  than  rqyal 
pomp  and  ease. 

I beheld  proud  Maximilian,  kneeling  humbly  on 
the  ground  ; 

I beheld  the  gentle  Mary,  hunting  with  her  hawk 
and  hound ; 

And  her  lighted  bridal-chamber,  where  a duke 
slept  with  the  queen. 

And  the  armed  guard  around  them,  and  the  sword 
unsheathed  between. 


THE  BELFRY  OF  BRUGES. 


235 


I beheld  the  Flemish  weavers,  with  Namur  and 
Juliers  bold, 

Marching  homeward  from  the  bloody  battle  of  the 
Spurs  of  Gold ; 

Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater,  saw  the  White  Hoods 
moving  west. 

Saw  great  Artevelde  victorious  scale  the  Golden 
Dragon’s  nest. 

And  again  the  whiskered  Spaniard  all  the  land 
with  terror  smote ; 

And  again  the  wild  alarum  sounded  from  the 
tocsin’s  throat ; 

Till  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded  o’er  lagoon  and 
dike  of  sand, 

“ I am  Roland  ! I am  Roland  ! there  is  victory  in 
the  land ! ” 

Then  the  sound  of  drums  aroused  me.  The 
awakened  city’s  roar 

Chased  the  phantoms  I had  summoned  back  into 
their  graves  once  more. 

Hours  had  passed  away  like  minutes  ; and,  before 
I was  aware, 

Lo ! the  shadow  of  the  belfry  crossed  the  sun 
illumined  square. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


A GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE. 


This  is  the  place.  Stand  still,  my  steed, 

Let  me  review  the  scene. 

And  summon  from  the  shadowy  Past 
The  forms  that  once  have  been. 

The  Past  and  Present  here  unite 
Beneath  Time’s  flowing  tide. 

Like  footprints  hidden  by  a brook. 

But  seen  on  either  side. 

Here  runs  the  highway  to  the  town  ; 

There  the  green  lane  descends. 

Through  which  I walked  to  church  with  thee, 
O gentlest  of  my  friends  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  linden-trees 
Lay  moving  on  the  grass ; 

Between  them  and  the  moving  boughs, 

A shadow,  thou  didst  pass. 

Thy  dress  was  like  the  lilies. 

And  thy  heart  as  pure  as  they : 

One  of  God’s  holy  messengers 
Did  walk  with  me  that  day. 

I saw  the  branches  of  the  trees 
Bend  down  thy  touch  to  meet, 

The  clover-blossoms  in  the  grass 
Rise  up  to  kiss  thy  feet. 

(239) 


240 


POEMS. 


“ Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares. 

Of  earth  and  folly  born ! ” 

Solemnly  sang  the  village  choir 
On  that  sweet  Sabbath  morn. 

Through  the  closed  blinds  the  golden  sun 
Poured  in  a dusty  beam. 

Like  the  celestial  ladder  seen 
By  Jacob  in  his  dream. 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  wind. 

Sweet-scented  with  the  hay. 

Turned  o’er  the  hymn-book’s  fluttering  leaves 
That  on  the  window  lay. 

Long  was  the  good  man’s  sermon. 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 

For  he  spake  of  Ruth  the  beautiful. 

And  still  I thought  of  thee. 

Long  was  the  prayer  he  uttered. 

Yet  it  seemed  not  so  to  me  ; 

For  in  my  heart  I prayed  with  him, 

And  still  I thought  of  thee. 

But  now,  alas  ! the  place  seems  changed ; 

Thou  art  no  longer  here : 

Part  of  the  sunshine  of  the  scene 
With  thee  did  disappear. 

Though  thoughts,  deep-rooted  in  my  heart, 
Like  pine-trees  dark  and  high. 

Subdue  the  light  of  noon,  and  breathe 
A low  and  ceaseless  sigh ; 

This  memory  brightens  o’er  the  past. 

As  when  the  sun,  concealed 

Behind  some  cloud  that  near  us  hangs, 

Shines  on  a distant  field. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 


241 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 

Like  a huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah ! what  a sound  will  rise,  how  wild  and  dreary 
When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift  keys ! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies  i 

I hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus. 

The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  through  the  ages  that  have  gone  before  us, 
In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  hammer, 
Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norseman’s 
song. 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor. 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful  din. 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 

Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpent’s  skin ; 

The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  village ; 
The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy  drowns ; 

The  soldiers’  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage  ; 

The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched  asunder. 
The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder. 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

VOL.  I.  16 


242 


POEMS 


Is  it,  O man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 

With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kindly  voices, 
And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies  ? 

Were  half  the  power,  that  fills  the  world  with 
terror. 

Were  half  the  wealth,  bestowed  on  camps  and 
courts. 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from. error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts : 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  abhorred  I 
And  every  nation,  that  should  lift  again 
Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of  Cain ! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  generations. 
The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 
cease ; 

And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 

I hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 

“ Peace ! ” 

Peace  ! and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  War’s  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies ! 

But  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 


NUREMBERG. 


24S 


NUREMBERG. 

In  the  valley  of  the  Pegnitz,  where  across  broad 
meadow-lands 

Rise  the  blue  Franconian  mountains,  Nuremberg, 
the  ancient,  stands. 

Quaint  old  town  of  toil  and  traffic,  quaint  old  town 
of  art  and  song, 

Memories  haunt  thy  pointed  gables,  like  the  rooks 
that  round  them  throng : 

Memories  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  emperors, 
rough  and  bold. 

Had  their  dwelling  in  thy  castle,  time-defying,  cen- 
turies old ; 

And  thy  brave  and  thrifty  burghers  boasted,  in 
their  uncouth  rhyme, 

That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its  hand 
through  every  clime. 

In  the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  bound  with  many 
an  iron  band, 

Stands  the  mighty  linden  planted  by  Queen  Cuni- 
gunde’s  hand ; 

On  the  square  the  oriel  window,  where  in  old 
heroic  days 

Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maximilian's 
praise. 

Everywhere  I see  around  me  rise  the  wondrous 
world  of  Art : 

Fountains  wrought  with  richest  sculpture  standing 
in  the  common  mart; 


244 


POEMS. 


And  above  cathedral  doorways  saints  and  bishops 
carved  in  stone, 

By  a former  age  commissioned  as  apostles  to  our 
own. 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  enshrined 
his  holy  dust, 

And  in  bronze  the  Twelve  Apostles  guard  from 
age  to  age  their  trust ; 

In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a pix 
of  sculpture  rare. 

Like  the  foamy  sheaf  of  fountains,  rising  through 
the  painted  air. 

Here,  when  Art  was  still  religion,  with  a simple, 
reverent  heart. 

Lived  and  labored  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  Evange- 
list of  Art ; 

Hence  in  silence  and  in  sorrow,  toiling  still  with 
busy  hand. 

Like  an  emigrant  he  wandered,  seeking  for  the 
Better  Land. 

Emigravit  is  the  inscription  on  the  tomb-stone 
where  he  lies ; 

Dead  he  is  not, — ^but  departed, — for  the  artist 
never  dies. 

Fairer  seems  the  ancient  city,  and  the  sunshine 
seems  more  fair. 

That  he  once  has  trod  its  pavement,  that  he  once 
has  breathed  its  air ! 

• Through  these  streets  so  broad  and  stately,  these 
obscure  and  dismal  lanes-. 

Walked  of  yore  the  Mastersingers,  chanting  rude 
poetic  strains. 


NUREMBERG. 


240 


From  remote  and  sunless  suburbs,  came  they  to 
the  friendly  guild, 

Building  nests  in  Fame’s  great  temple,  as  in  spouts 
the  swallows  build. 

As  the  weaver  plied  the  shuttle,  wove  he  too  the 
mystic  rhyme. 

And  the  smith  his  iron  measures  hammered  to 
the  anvil’s  chime ; 

Thanking  God,  whose  boundless  wisdom  makes 
the  flowers  of  poesy  bloom 

In  the  forge’s  dust  and  cinders,  in  the  tissues  of 
the  loom. 

Here  Hans  Sachs,  the  cobbler-poet,  laureate  of  the 
gentle  craft, 

Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters,  in  huge  folios 
sang  and  laughed. 

But  his  house  is  now  an  ale-house,  with  a nicely 
sanded  floor, 

And  a garland  in  the  window,  and  his  face  above 
the  door ; 

Painted  by  some  humble  artist,  as  in  Adam 
Puschman’s  song, 

As  the  old  man  gray  and  dove-like,  with  his  great 
beard  white  and  long. 

And  at  night  the  swart  mechanic  comes  to  drown 
his  cark  and  care, 

Quaffing  ale  from  pewter  tankards,  in  the  master’s 
antique  chair. 

Vanished  is  the  ancient  splendor,  and  before  my 
dreamy  eye 

Wave  these  mingling  shapes  and  figures,  like  a 
faded  tapestry. 


246 


POEMS. 


Not  thy  Councils,  not  thy  Kaisers,  win  for  thee  the 
world’s  regard; 

But  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  and  Hans  Sachs, 
thy  cobbler-bard. 

Thus,  O Nuremberg,  a wanderer  from  a region 
far  away. 

As  he  paced  thy  streets  and  court-yards,  sang  in 
thought  his  careless  lay : 

Gathering  from  the  pavement’s  crevice,  as  a 
floweret  of  the  soil. 

The  nobility  of  labor, — the  long  pedigree  of 
toil. 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 

Dans  les  moments  de  la  vie  ou  la  reflexion  devient  plus  calme 
et  plus  profonde,  ou  I’interet  et  I’avarice  parlent  moins  haut  que 
la  raison,  dans  les  instants  de  chagrin  domestique,  de  maladie,  et 
de  peril  de  mort,  les  nobles  se  repentirent  de  posseder  des  serfs, 
comme  d’une  chose  peu  agr^ble  a Dieu,  qui  avait  cre4  tons  les 
hommes  k son  image. 

Thierry  : Conquete  de  l’Angleterre. 

In  his  chamber,  weak  and  dying, 

Was  the  N^orman  baron  lying ; 

Loud,  without,  the  tempest  thundered. 

And  the  castle-turret  shook. 

In  this  fight  was  Death  the  gainer. 

Spite  of  vassal  and  retainer. 

And  the  lands  his  sires  had  plundered, 
Written  in  the  Doomsday  Book. 

By  his  bed  a monk  was  seated, 

Who  in  humble  voice  repeated 
Many  a prayer  and  pater-noster, 

F rom  the  missal  on  his  knee ; 


THE  NORMAN  BARON. 


247 


And,  amid  the  tempest  pealing, 

Sounds  of  bells  came  faintly  stealing. 
Bells,  that,  from  the  neighbouring  kloster, 
Bang  for  the  Nativity. 

In  the  hall,  the  serf  and  vassal 

Held,  that  night,  their  Christmas  wassail ; 

Many  a carol,  old  and  saintly, 

Sang  the  minstrels  and  the  waits. 

And  so  loud  these  Saxon  gleemen 
Sang  to  slaves  the  songs  of  freemen. 
That  the  storm  was  heard  but  faintly, 
Knocking  at  the  castle-gates. 

Till  at  length  the  lays  they  chaunted 
Beached  the  chamber  terror-haunted, 
Where  the  monk,  with  accents  holy. 
Whispered  at  the  baron’s  ear. 

Tears  upon  his  eyelids  glistened. 

As  he  paused  awhile  and  listened. 

And  the  dying  baron  slowly 

Turned  his  weary  head  to  hear. 

“ Wassail  for  the  kingly  stranger 
Born  and  cradled  in  a manger ! 

King,  like  David,  priest,  like  Aaron, 
Christ  is  born  to  set  us  free  ! ” 

And  the  lightning  showed  the  sainted 
Figures  on  the  casement  painted. 

And  exclaimed  the  shuddering  baron, 

“ Miserere,  Domine  ! ” 

In  that  hour  of  deep  contrition. 

He  beheld,  with  clearer  vision. 

Through  all  outward  show  and  fashion, 
Justice,  the  Avenger,  rise. 


248 


POEMS. 


All  the  pomp  of  earth  had  vanished, 
Falsehood  and  deceit  were  banished, 
Reason  spake  more  loud  than  passion. 

And  the  truth  wore  no  disguise. 

Every  vassal  of  his  banner. 

Every  serf  born  to  his  manor. 

All  those  wronged  and  wretched  creatures. 
By  his  hand  were  freed  again. 

And,  as  on  the  sacred  missal 
He  recorded  their  dismissal, 

Death  relaxed  his  iron  features. 

And  the  monk  replied,  “ Amen ! ” 

Many  centuries  have  been  numbered 
Since  in  death  the  baron  slumbered 
By  the  convent’s  sculptured  portal. 
Mingling  with  the  common  dust : 

But  the  good  deed,  through  the  ages 
Living  in  historic  pages. 

Brighter  grows  and  gleams  immortal, 
Unconsumed  by  moth  or  rust. 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat. 

In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain  1 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs. 
Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER 


249 


From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 
Across  the  window  pane 
It  pours  and  pours  ; 

And  swift  and  wide, 

With  a muddy  tide, 

Like  a river  down  the  gutter  roars 
The  rain,  the  welcome  rain  ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks  ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool ; 

His  fevered  brain 
Grows  calm  again. 

And  he  breathes  a blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighbouring  school 
Come  the  boys. 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 
And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  fleets. 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side. 

Where  far  and  wide. 

Like  a leopard’s  tawny  and  spotted  hide. 
Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 
How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head. 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread. 

They  silently  inhale 
The  clover-scented  gale. 


250 


rOEMS. 


And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well  watered  and  smoking  soil. 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man’s  spoken  word. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures,  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 
That  he  sees  therein 
Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these. 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air; 

And  from  each  ample  fold 
Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 
Scattering  everywhere 
The  showery  rain. 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told. 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops. 

Follows  the  water-drops 
Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 
To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 


TO  A CHILD. 


251 


On  tlie  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 

Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  Seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear. 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 
Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth. 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to  earth 
Till  glimpses  more  sublime 
Of  things,  unseen  before. 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  Universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  forevermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 


TO  A CHILD. 

Dear  child  ! how  radiant  on  thy  mother’s  knee, 
With  merry-making  eyes  and  jocund  smiles. 

Thou  gazest  at  the  painted  tiles, 

Whose  figures  grace, 

With  many  a grotesque  form  and  face, 

The  ancient  chimney  of  thy  nursery  ! 

The  lady  with  the  gay  macaw, 

The  dancing  girl,  the  grave  bashaw 
With  bearded  lip  and  chin  ; 

And,  leaning  idly  o’er  his  gate, 

Beneath  the  imperial  fan  of  state, 

The  Chinese  mandarin. 

With  what  a look  of  proud  command 
Thou  shakest  in  thy  little  hand 
The  coral  rattle  with  its  silver  bells. 


252 


POEMS. 


Making  a merry  tune ! 

Thousands  of  years  in  Indian  seas 
That  coral  grew,  by  slow  degrees, 

Until  some  deadly  and  wild  monsoon 
Dashed  it  on  Coromandel’s  sand  ! 

Those  silver  bells 
Reposed  of  yore, 

As  shapeless  ore. 

Far  down  in  the  deep-sunken  wells 
Of  darksome  mines. 

In  some  obscure  and  sunless  place. 
Beneath  huge  Chimborazo’s  base. 

Or  Potosi’s  o’erhanging  pines  ! 

And  thus  for  thee,  O little  child, 

Through  many  a danger  and  escape. 

The  tall  ships  passed  the  stormy  cape ; 

For  thee  in  foreign  lands  remote. 

Beneath  the  burning,  tropic  clime. 

The  Indian  peasant,  chasing  the  wild  goat, 
Himself  as  swift  and  wild. 

In  falling,  clutched  the  frail  arbute, 

The  fibres  of  whose  shallow  root. 

Uplifted  from  the  soil,  betrayed 
The  silver  veins  beneath  it  laid. 

The  buried  treasures  of  the  pirate,  Time. 

But,  lo ! thy  door  is  left  ajar  ! 

Thou  hearest  footsteps  from  afar  ! 

And,  at  the  sound. 

Thou  turnest  round 

With  quick  and  questioning  eyes. 

Like  one,  who,  in  a foreign  land. 

Beholds  on  every  hand 

Some  source  of  wonder  and  surprise  ! 

And,  restlessly,  impatiently. 

Thou  strivest,  strugglest,  to  be  free. 

The  four  walls  of  thy  nursery 
Are  now  like  prison  walls  to  thee. 

No  more  thy  mother’s  smiles, 


TO  A CHILD. 


253 


No  more  the  painted  tiles, 

Delight  thee,  nor  the  playthings  on  the  floor 
That  won  thy  little,  beating  heart  before ; 

Thou  strugglest  for  the  open  door. 

Through  these  once  solitary  halls 
Thy  pattering  footstep  falls. 

The  sound  of  thy  merry  voice 
Makes  the  old  walls 
Jubilant,  and  they  rejoice 
With  the  joy  of  thy  young  heart. 

O’er  the  light  of  whose  gladness 
No  shadows  of  sadness 

Fxom  the  sombre  background  of  memory  start. 

Once,  ah,  once,  within  these  walls, 

One  whom  memory  oft  recalls. 

The  Father  of  his  Country,  dwelt. 

And  yonder  meadows  broad  and  damp 
The  fires  of  the  besieging  camp 
Encircled  with  a burning  belt. 

Up  and  down  these  echoing  stairs. 

Heavy  with  the  weight  of  cares. 

Sounded  his  majestic  tread ; 

Yes,  within  this  very  room 
Sat  he  in  those  hours  of  gloom. 

Weary  both  in  heart  and  head. 

But  what  are  these  grave  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
Out,  out ! into  the  open  air  ! 

Thy  only  dream  is  liberty. 

Thou  carest  little  how  or  where. 

I see  thee  eager  at  thy  play. 

Now  shouting  to  the  apples  on  the  tree. 

With  cheeks  as  round  and  red  as  they ; 

And  now  among  the  yellow  stalks. 

Among  the  flowering  shrubs  and  plants. 

As  restless  as  the  bee. 

Along  the  garden  walks. 


254 


POEMS. 


The  tracks  of  thy  small  carriage- wheels  I trace ; 
And  see  at  every  turn  how  they  efface 
Whole  villages  of  sand-roofed  tents, 

That  rise  like  golden  domes 

Above  the  cavernous  and  secret  homes 

Of  wandering  and  nomadic  tribes  of  ants. 

Ah,  cruel  little  Tamerlane, 

Who,  with  thy  dreadful  reign. 

Dost  persecute  and  overwhelm 
These  hapless  Troglodytes  of  thy  realm ! 

What ! tired  already ! with  those  suppliant  looks. 
And  voice  more  beautiful  than  a poet’s  books. 

Or  murmuring  sound  of  water  as  it  flows, 

Thou  comest  back  to  parley  with  repose  ! 

This  rustic  seat  in  the  old  apple-tree. 

With  its  o’erhanging  golden  canopy 
Of  leaves  illuminate  with  autumnal  hues. 

And  shining  with  the  argent  light  of  dews. 

Shall  for  a season  be  our  place  of  rest. 

Beneath  us,  like  an  oriole’s  pendent  nest, 

From  which  the  laughing  birds  have  taken  wing, 
By  thee  abandoned,  hangs  thy  vacant  swing. 
Dream-like  the  waters  of  the  river  gleam  ; 

A sailless  vessel  drops  adown  the  stream. 

And  like  it,  to  a sea  as  wide  and  deep. 

Thou  driftest  gently  down  the  tides  of  sleep. 

0 child  ! O new-born  denizen 
Of  life’s  great  city  ! on  thy  head 
The  glory  of  the  morn  is  shed. 

Like  a celestial  benison  ! 

Here  at  the  portal  thou  dost  stand. 

And  with  thy  little  hand 

Thou  openest  the  mysterious  gate 

Into  the  future’s  undiscovered  land. 

1 see  its  valves  expand. 

As  at  the  touch  of  Fate ! 

Into  those  realms  of  love  and  hate. 


TO  A CHILD. 


265 


Into  that  darkness  blank  and  drear, 

By  some  prophetic  feeling  taught, 

I launch  the  bold,  adventurous  thought, 
Freighted  with  hope  and  fear ; 

As  upon  subterranean  streams. 

In  caverns  unexplored  and  dark. 

Men  sometimes  launch  a fragile  bark. 
Laden  with  flickering  fire, 

And  watch  its  swift-receding  beams. 

Until  at  length  they  disappear. 

And  in  the  distant  dark  expire. 

By  what  astrology  of  fear  or  hope 
Dare  I to  cast  thy  horoscope  ! 

Like  the  new  moon  thy  life  appears ; 

A little  strip  of  silver  light. 

And  widening  outward  into  night 
The  shadowy  disk  of  future  years  ; 

And  yet  upon  its  outer  rim, 

A luminous  circle,  faint  and  dim. 

And  scarcely  visible  to  us  here. 

Rounds  and  completes  the  perfect  sphere  ; 
A prophecy  and  intimation, 

A pale  and  feeble  adumbration. 

Of  the  great  world  of  light,  that  lies 
Behind  all  human  destinies. 

Ah ! if  thy  fate,  with  anguish  fraught. 
Should  be  to  wet  the  dusty  soil 
With  the  hot  tears  and  sweat  of  toil, — 
To  struggle  with  imperious  thought, 

Until  the  overburdened  brain. 

Weary  with  labor,  faint  with  pain,  ■ 

Like  a jarred  pendulum,  retain 
Only  its  motion,  not  its  power, — 
Remember,  in  that  perilous  hour. 

When  most  afflicted  and  oppressed. 

From  labor  there  shall  come  forth  rest. 

And  if  a more  auspicious  fate 
On  thy  advancing  steps  await. 


256 


POEMS. 


Still  let  it  ever  be  tby  pride 
To  linger -by  the  laborer’s  side ; 

With  words  of  sympathy  or  song 
To  cheer  the  dreary  march  along 
Of  the  great  army  of  the  poor, 

O’er  desert  sand,  o’er  dangerous  moor. 
Nor  to  thyself  the  task  shall  be 
Without  reward ; for  thou  shalt  learn 
The  wisdom  early  to  discern 
True  beauty  in  utility ; 

As  great  Pythagoras  of  yore. 

Standing  beside  the  blacksmith’s  door. 
And  hearing  the  hammers,  as  they  smote 
The  anvils  with  a different  note. 

Stole  from  the  varying  tones,  that  hung 
Vibrant  on  every  iron  tongue. 

The  secret  of  the  sounding  wire, 

And  formed  the  seven-chorded  lyre. 

Enough ! I will  not  play  the  Seer ; 

I will  no  longer  strive  to  ope 
The  mystic  volume,  where  appear 
The  herald  Hope,  forerunning  Fear, 

And  Fear,  the  pursuivant  of  Hope. 

Thy  destiny  remains  untold ; 

For,  like  Acestes’  shaft  of  old, 

The  swift  thought  kindles  as  it  flies. 

And  burns  to  ashes  in  the  skies. 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 

I SAW,  as  in  a dream  sublime, 

The  balance  in  the  hand  of  Time. 

O er  East  and  West  its  beam  impended ; 
And  day,  with  all  its  hours  of  light. 

Was  slowly  sinking  out  of  sight, 


THE  OCCULTATION  OF  ORION. 


257 


While,  opposite,  the  scale  of  night 
Silently  with  the  stars  ascended. 

Like  the  astrologers  of  eld. 

In  that  bright  vision  I beheld 
Greater  and  deeper  mysteries. 

I saw,  with  its  celestial  keys. 

Its  chords  of  air,  its  frets  of  fire. 

The  Samian’s  great  JEolian  lyre, 

Rising  through  all  its  sevenfold  bars. 

From  earth  unto  the  fixed  stars. 

And  through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

Not  only  could  I see,  but  hear. 

Its  wondrous  and  harmonious  strings. 

In  sweet  vibration,  sphere  by  sphere. 

From  Dian’s  circle  light  and  near. 

Onward  to  vaster  and  wider  rings, 

Where,  chanting  through  his  beard  of  snows, 
Majestic,  mournful,  Saturn  goes. 

And  down  the  sunless  realms  of  space 
Reverberates  the  thunder  of  his  bass. 

Beneath  the  sky’s  triumphal  arch 
This  music  sounded  like  a march. 

And  with  its  chorus  seemed  to  be 
Preluding  some  great  tragedy. 

Sirius  was  rising  in  the  east ; 

And,  slow  ascending  one  by  one. 

The  kindling  constellations  shone. 

Begirt  with  many  a blazing  star, 

Stood  the  great  giant  Algebar, 

Orion,  hunter  of  the  beast ! 

His  sword  hung  gleaming  by  his  side. 

And,  on  his  arm,  the  lion’s  hide 
Scattered  across  the  midnight  air 
The  golden  radiance  of  its  hair. 

The  moon  was  pallid,  but  not  faint 
And  beautiful  as  some  fair  saint, 

VOL.  I.  17 


258 


POEMS. 


Serenely  moving  on  her  way 
In  hours  of  trial  and  dismay. 

As  if  she  heard  the  voice  of  God, 
Unharmed  with  naked  feet  she  trod 
Upon  the  hot  and  burning  stars, 

As  on  the  glowing  coals  and  bars 
That  were  to  prove  her  strength,  and  try' 
Her  holiness  and  her  purity. 

Thus  moving  on,  with  silent  pace. 

And  triumph  in  her  sweet,  pale  face. 

She  reached  the  station  of  Orion. 

Aghast  he  stood  in  strange  alarm ! 

And  suddenly  from  his  outstretched  arm 
Down  fell  the  red  skin  of  the  lion 
Into  the  river  at  his  feet 
His  mighty  club  no  longer  beat 
The  forehead  of  the  bull ; but  he 
Reeled  as  of  yore  beside  the  sea. 

When,  blinded  by  CEnopion, 

He  sought  the  blacksmith  at  his  forge. 
And,  climbing  up  the  mountain  gorge. 
Fixed  his  blank  eyes  upon  the  sun. 

Then,  through  the  silence  overhead. 

An  angel  with  a trumpet  said, 

“ Forevermore,  forevermore. 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er  ! ” 

And,  like  an  instrument  that  flings 
Its  music  on  another’s  strings. 

The  trumpet  of  the  angel  cast 
Upon  the  heavenly  lyre  its  blast. 

And  on  from  sphere  to  sphere  the  words 
Reechoed  down  the  burning  chords, — 

“ Forevermore,  forevermore, 

The  reign  of  violence  is  o’er ! ” 


THE  BRIDGE. 


259 


THE  BRIDGE. 

1 STOOD  on  the  bridge  at  midnight, 

As  the  clocks  were  striking  the  hour, 
And  the  moon  rose  o’er  the  city, 

Behind  the  dark  church-tower. 

I saw  her  bright  reflection 
In  the  waters  under  me. 

Like  a golden  goblet  falling 
And  sinking  into  the  sea. 

And  far  in  the  hazy  distance 
Of  that  lovely  night  in  June, 

The  blaze  of  the  flaming  furnace 
Gleamed  redder  than  the  moon. 

Among  the  long,  black  rafters 
The  wavering  shadows  lay. 

And  the  current  that  came  from  the  ocean 
Seemed  to  lift  and  bear  them  away  ; 

As,  sweeping  and  eddying  through  them, 
Rose  the  belated  tide. 

And,  streaming  into  the  moonlight, 

The  seaweed  floated  wide. 

And  like  those  waters  rushing 
Among  the  wooden  piers, 

A flood  of  thoughts  came  o’er  me 
That  filled  my  eyes  with  tears. 

How  often,  O,  how  often, 

In  the  days  that  had  gone  by, 

I had  stood  on  that  bridge  at  midnight 
And  gazed  on  that  wave  and  sky  1 


260 


POEMS. 


How  often,  O,  how  often, 

I had  wished  that  the  ebbing  tide 
Would  bear  me  away  on  its  bosom 
O’er  the  ocean  wild  and  wide  ! 

For  my  heart  was  hot  and  restless. 
And  my  life  was  full  of  care. 

And  the  burden  laid  upon  me 

Seemed  greater  than  I could  bear. 

But  now  it  has  fallen  from  me. 

It  is  buried  in  the  sea ; 

And  only  the  sorrow  of  others 
Throws  its  shadow  over  me. 

Yet  whenever  I cross  the  river 
On  its  bridge  with  wooden  piers. 
Like  the  odor  of  brine  from  the  ocean 
Comes  the  thought  of  other  years. 

And  I think  how  many  thousands 
Of  care-encumbered  men. 

Each  bearing  his  burden  of  sorrow. 
Have  crossed  the  bridge  since  then. 

I see  the  long  procession 
Still  passing  to  and  fro, 

The  young  heart  hot  and  restless. 

And  the  old  subdued  and  slow  ! 

And  forever  and  forever. 

As  long  as  the  river  flows. 

As  long  as  the  heart  has  passions. 

As  long  as  life  has  woes ; 

The  moon  and  its  broken  reflection 
And  its  shadows  shall  appear. 

As  the  symbol  of  love  in  heaven. 

And  its  wavering  image  here. 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 


261 


TO  THE  DRIVING  CLOUD. 

Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou,  O chief  of  the  mighty 
Omawhaws ; 

Gloomy  and  dark,  as  the  driving  cloud,  whose 
name  thou  hast  taken  ! 

Wrapt  in  thy  scarlet  blanket,  I see  thee  stalk 
through  the  city’s 

Narrow  and  populous  streets,  as  once  by  the  mar- 
gin of  rivers 

Stalked  those  birds  unknown,  that  have  left  us 
only  their  footprints. 

What,  in  a few  short  years,  will  remain  of  thy 
race  but  the  footprints  ? 

How  canst  thou  walk  in  these  streets,  who  hast 
trod  the  green  turf  of  the  prairies  ? 

How  canst  thou  breathe  in  this  air,  who  hast 
breathed  the  sweet  air  of  the  mountains  ? 

Ah!  ’t  is  vain  that  with  lordly  looks  of  disdain 
thou  dost  challenge 

Looks  of  dislike  in  return,  and  question  these  walls 
and  these  pavements. 

Claiming  the  soil  for  thy  hunting-grounds,  while 
down-trodden  millions 

Starve  in  the  garrets  of  Europe,  and  cry  from  its 
caverns  that  they,  too. 

Have  been  created  heirs  of  the  earth,  and  claim 
its  division  ! 

Back,  then,  back  to  thy  woods  in  the  regions  west 
of  the  Wabash ! 

There  as  a monarch  thou  reignest.  In  autumn 
the  leaves  of  the  maple 

Pave  the  floors  of  thy  palace-halls  with  gold,  and 
in  summer 

Pine-trees  waft  through  its  chambers  the  odorora 
breath  of  their  branches. 


262 


POEMS. 


There  thou  art  strong  and  great,  a hero,  a tamer 
of  horses ! 

There  thou  chasest  the  stately  stag  on  the  banks 
of  the  Elk-horn, 

Or  by  the  roar  of  the  Running- Water,  or  where 
the  Omawhaw 

Calls  thee,  and  leaps  through  the  wild  ravine  like 
a brave  of  the  Blackfeet ! 

Hark ! what  murmurs  arise  from  the  heart  of  those 
mountainous  deserts  ? 

Is  it  the  cry  of  the  Foxes  and  Crows,  or  the  mighty 
Behemoth, 

Who,  unharmed,  on  his  tusks  once  caught  the  bolts 
of  the  thunder. 

And  now  lurks  in  his  lair  to  destroy  the  race  of  the 
red  man  ? 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  Crows 
and  the  Foxes, 

Far  more  fatal  to  thee  and  thy  race  than  the  tread 
of  Behemoth, 

Lo!  the  big  thunder-canoe,  that  steadily  breasts 
the  Missouri’s 

Merciless  current ! and  yonder,  afar  on  the  prairies, 
the  camp-fires 

Gleam  through  the  night ; and  the  cloud  of  dust  in 
the  gray  of  the  daybreak 

Marks  not  the  buffalo’s  track,  nor  the  Mandan’s 
dexterous  horse-race ; 

It  is  a caravan,  whitening  the  desert  where  dwell 
the  Camanches  ! 

Ha!  how  the  breath  of  these  Saxons  and  Celts, 
like  the  blast  of  the  east-wind. 

Drifts  evermore  to  the  west  the  scanty  smokes  of 
thy  wigwams ! 


SONGS. 


SEAWEED. 


When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 

Storm-wind  of  the  equinox, 

Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 
The  toiling  surges, 

Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks : 

From  Bermuda’s  reefs  ; from  edges 
Of  sunken  ledges. 

In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore ; 

From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing. 
Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf,  that  buries 
The  Orkneyan  skerries. 
Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides  ; 

And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  driftin 
Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main  ; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches. 

All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 
Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet’s  soul,  ere  long 


266 


POEMS. 


From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness, 

In  its  vastness, 

Floats  some  fragment  of  a song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted. 

Heaven  has  planted 

With  the  golden  fruit  of  Truth  ; 

From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 
Gleams  Elysian 

In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  Will,  and  the  Endeavour 
That  forever 

Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  Fate  ; 

From  the  wreck  of  Hopes  far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 

Floating  waste  and  desolate  ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 

Till  at  length  in  books  recorded. 

They,  like  hoarded 

Household  words,  no  more  depart. 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist. 
And  a feeling  of  sadness  comes  o’er  me. 
That  my  soul  cannot  resist : 


THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 


267 


A feeling  of  sadness  and  longing, 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 

And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 

Come,  read  to  me  some  poem, 

Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling. 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters,  ' 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime. 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music. 

Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 
Life’s  endless  toil  and  endeavour ; 

And  to-night  I long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet. 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart. 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer. 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start ; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor. 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease. 

Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 
Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 
The  restless  pulse  of  care. 

And  come  like  the  benediction 
That  follows  after  prayer. 

Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 
The  poem  of  thy  choice. 

And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 
The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 


268 


POEMS. 


And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 
And  the  cares,  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

The  day  is  ending, 

The  night  is  descending ; 

The  marsh  is  frozen, 

The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 

The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 

The  road  o’er  the  plain  ; 

While  through  the  meadows, 
Like  fearful  shadows, 

Slowly  passes 
A funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 

And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing. 

My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a funeral  belL 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 


269 


TO  AN  OLD  DANISH  SONG-BOOK. 

Welcome,  my  old  friend, 

Welcome, to  a foreign  fireside. 

While  the  sullen  gales  of  autumn 
Shake  the  windows. 

The  ungrateful  world 
Has,  it  seems,  dealt  harshly  with  thee, 
Since,  beneath  the  skies  of  Denmark, 
First  I met  thee. 

There  are  marks  of  age. 

There  are  thumb-marks  on  thy  margin. 
Made  by  hands  that  clasped  thee  rudely, 
At  the  ale-house. 

Soiled  and  dull  thou  art ; 

Yellow  are  thy  time-worn  pages. 

As  the  russet,  rain-molested 
Leaves  of  autumn. 

Thou  art  stained  with  wine 
Scattered  from  hilarious  goblets, 

As  these  leaves  with  the  libations 
Of  Olympus. 

Yet  dost  thou  recall 

Days  departed,  half-forgotten, 

When  in  dreamy  youth  I wandered 
By  the  Baltic, — 

When  I paused  to  hear 
The  old  ballad  of  King  Christian 
Shouted  from  suburban  taverns 
In  the  twilight. 


270 


POEMS. 


Thou  recallest  bards, 

Who,  in  solitary  chambers. 

And  with  hearts  by  passion  wasted. 
Wrote  thy  pages. 

Thou  recallest  homes 
Where  thy  songs  of  love  and  friendship 
Made  the  gloomy  Northern  winter 
Bright  as  summer. 

Once  some  ancient  Scald, 

In  his  bleak,  ancestral  Iceland, 

Chanted  staves  of  these  old  ballads 
To  the  Vikings. 

Once  in  Elsinore, 

At  the  court  of  old  King  Hamlet, 
Yorick  and  his  boon  companions 
Sang  these  ditties. 

Once  Prince  Frederick’s  Guard 
Sang  them  in  their  smoky  barracks , — 
Suddenly  the  English  cannon 
Joined  the  chorus  ! 

Peasants  in  the  field. 

Sailors  on  the  roaring  ocean. 

Students,  tradesmen,  pale  mechanics, 
All  have  sung  them. 

Thou  hast  been  their  friend ; 

They,  alas ! have  left  thee  friendless ! 
Yet  at  least  by  one  warm  fireside 
Art  thou  welcome. 

And,  as  swallows  build 
In  these  wide,  old-fashioned  chimneys. 
So  thy  twittering  songs  shall  nestle 
In  my  bosom, — 


WALTER  VON  DER  VOGEL WEIDE.  27] 


Quiet,  close,  and  warm. 
Sheltered  from  all  molestation. 
And  recalling  by  their  voices 
Youth,  and  travel. 


WALTER  VON  DER  YOGELWEIDE. 

VoGELWEiD  the  Minnesinger, 

When  he  left  this  world  of  ours. 

Laid  his  body  in  the  cloister. 

Under  Wiirtzburg’s  minster  towers. 

And  he  gave  the  monks  his  treasures. 

Gave  them  all  with  this  behest : 

They  should  feed  the  birds  at  noontide 
Daily  on  his  place  of  rest ; 

Saying,  “ From  these  wandering  minstrels 
I have  learned  the  art  of  song ; 

Let  me  now  repay  the  lessons 

They  have  taught  so  well  and  long.” 

Thus  the  bard  of  love  departed  ; 

And,  fulfilling  his  desire. 

On  his  tomb  the  birds  were  feasted 
By  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Day  by  day,  o’er  tower  and  turret. 

In  foul  weather  and  in  fair. 

Day  by  day,  in  vaster  numbers. 

Flocked  the  poets  of  the  air. 

On  the  tree  whose  heavy  branches 
Overshadowed  all  the  place. 

On  the  pavement,  on  the  tombstone, 

On  the  poet’s  sculptured  face, 


272 


POEMS. 


On  the  cross-bars  of  each  window, 

On  the  lintel  of  each  door, 

They  renewed  the  War  of  Wartburg, 
Which  the  bard  had  fought  before. 

There  they  sang  their  merry  carols. 
Sang  their  lauds  on  every  side ; 

And  the  name  their  voices  uttered 
Was  the  name  of  Yogelweid. 

Till  at  length  the  portly  abbot 

Murmured,  “ Why  this  waste  of  food  ? 

Be  it  changed  to  loaves  henceforward 
For  our  fasting  brotherhood.” 

Then  in  vain  o’er  tower  and  turret. 
From  the  walls  and  woodland  nests, 

When  the  minster  bells  rang  noontide. 
Gathered  the  unwelcome  guests. 

Then  in  vain,  with  cries  discordant. 
Clamorous  round  the  Gothic  spire. 

Screamed  the  feathered  Minnesingers 
For  the  children  of  the  choir. 

Time  has  long  effaced  the  inscriptions 
On  the  cloister’s  funeral  stones. 

And  tradition  only  tells  us 

Where  repose  the  poet’s  bones. 

But  around  the  vast  cathedral. 

By  sweet  echoes  multiplied. 

Still  the  birds  repeat  the  legend. 

And  the  name  of  Yogelweid. 


DRINKING  SONG. 


273 


DRINKING  SONG. 

INSCRIPTION  FOR  AN  ANTIQUE  PITCHER. 

Come,  old  friend ! sit  down  and  listen  ! 

From  the  pitcher,  placed  between  us, 
How  the  waters  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus ! 

Old  Silenus,  bloated,  drunken. 

Led  by  his  inebriate  Satyrs ; 

On  his  breast  his  head  is  sunken. 
Vacantly  he  leers  and  chatters. 

Fauns  with  youthful  Bacchus  follow  ; 

Ivy  crowns  that  brow  supernal 
As  the  forehead  of  Apollo, 

And  possessing  youth  eternal. 

Round  about  him,  fair  Bacchantes, 
Bearing  cymbals,  flutes,  and  thyrses, 
Wild  from  Naxian  groves,  or  Zante’s 
Vineyards,  sing  delirious  verses. 

Thus  he  won,  through  all  the  nations. 
Bloodless  victories,  and  the  farmer 
Bore,  as  trophies  and  oblations. 

Vines  for  banners,  ploughs  for  armor. 

Judged  by  no  o’erzealous  rigor, 

Much  this  mystic  throng  expresses  : 
Bacchus  was  the  type  of  vigor. 

And  Silenus  of  excesses. 

These  are  ancient  ethnic  revels. 

Of  a faith  long  since  forsaken  ; 

Now  the  Satyrs,  changed  to  devils, 
Frighten  mortals  wine-o’ertaken. 
VOL.  I.  18 


274 


POEMS. 


Now  to  rivulets  from  the  mountains 
Point  the  rods  of  fortune-tellers ; 

Youth  perpetual  dwells  in  fountains, — 
Not  in  flasks,  and  casks,  and  cellars. 

Claudius,  though  he  sang  of  flagons 

And  huge  tankards  filled  with  Rhenish, 

From  that  fiery  blood  of  dragons 
Never  would  his  own  replenish. 

Even  Redi,  though  he  chaunted 
Bacchus  in  the  Tuscan  valleys, 

Never  drank  the  wine  he  vaunted 
In  his  dithyrambic  salli'es. 

Then  with  water  fill  the  pitcher 
Wreathed  about  with  classic  fables ; 

Ne’er  Falernian  threw  a richer 
Light  upon  Lucullus’  tables. 

Come,  old  friend,  sit  down  and  listen ! 

As  it  passes  thus  between  us. 

How  its  wavelets  laugh  and  glisten 
In  the  head  of  old  Silenus ! 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 

L'eternitd  est  une  pendule,  dont  le  balancier  dit  et  redit  sans 
cesse  ces  deux  mots  seulement,  dans  le  silence  des  tombeaux: 
“ Toujours!  jamais!  Jamais!  toujours!” 

JACQUES  BRIDAINE. 

Somewhat  back  from  the  village  street 
Stands  the  old-fashioned  country-seat. 

Across  its  antique  portico 

Tall  poplar-trees  their  shadows  throw 

And  from  its  station  in  the  hall 


THE  OLD  CLOCK  ON  THE  STAIRS. 


An  ancient  timepiece  says  to  all, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever  1 

Halfway  up  the  stairs  it  stands, 

And  points  and  beckons  with  its  hands 
From  its  case  of  massive  oak. 

Like  a monk,  who,  under  his  cloak. 

Crosses  himself,  and  sighs,  alas ! 

With  sorrowful  voice  to  all  who  pass, — 

“ Forever — never! 

Never — forever  1 ” 

By  day  its  voice  is  low  and  light ; 

But  in  the  silent  dead  of  night. 

Distinct  as  a passing  footstep’s  fall. 

It  echoes  along  the  vacant  hall. 

Along  the  ceiling,  along  the  floor. 

And  seems  to  say,  at  each  chamber-door, — 
“ Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  1 ” 

Through  days  of  sorrow  and  of  mirth. 
Through  days  of  death  and  days  of  birth. 
Through  every  swift  vicissitude 
Of  changeful  time,  unchanged  it  has  stood. 
And  as  if,  like  God,  it  all  things  saw. 

It  calmly  repeats  those  words  of  awe, — 
Forever — never  1 
Never — forever  1 ” 

In  that  mansion  used  to  be 
Free-hearted  Hospitality ; 

His  great  fires  up  the  chimney  roared ; 

The  stranger  feasted  at  his  board  ; 

But,  like  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 

That  warning  timepiece  never  ceased, — 

“ Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 


276 


POEMS. 


There  groups  of  merry  children  played, 

There  youths  and  maidens  dreaming  strayed ; 
O precious  hours  ! O golden  prime, 

And  affluence  of  love  and  time  ! 

Even  as  a miser  counts  his  gold, 

Those  hours  the  ancient  timepiece  told, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

From  that  chamber,  clothed  in  white. 

The  bride  came  forth  on  her  wedding  night ; 
There,  in  that  silent  room  below. 

The  dead  lay  in  his  shroud  of  snow  ; 

And  in  the  hush  that  followed  the  prayer. 
Was  heard  the  old  clock  on  the  stair, — 

“ Forever — never ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

All  are  scattered  now  and  fled. 

Some  are  married,  some  are  dead ; 

And  when  I ask,  with  throbs  of  pain, 

“ Ah ! when  shall  they  all  meet  again  ? 

As  in  the  days  long-since  gone  by. 

The  ancient  timepiece  makes  reply, — 

“ Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever  ! ” 

Never  here,  forever  there. 

Where  all  parting,  pain,  and  care. 

And  death,  and  time  shall  disappear, — 
Forever  there,  but  never  here  ! 

The  horologe  of  Eternity 
Sayeth  this  incessantly, — 

“ Forever — never  ! 

Never — forever ! ” 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 


277 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where  ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I breathed  a song  into  the  air, 

It  fell  to  earth,  I knew  not  where ; 

For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong. 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 

And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I found  again  in  the  heart  of  a friend. 


■X 


SONNETS. 


I 


- 


r*.-.  • 


\ 


i 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 


Lo  I in  the  painted  oriel  of  the  West, 

Whose  panes  the  sunken  sun  incarnadines, 

Like  a fair  lady  at  her  casement,  shines 
The  evening  star,  the  star  of  love  and  rest ! 

And  then  anon  she  doth  herself  divest 
Of  all  her  radiant  garments,  and  reclines 
Behind  the  sombre  screen  of  yonder  pines. 

With  slumber  and  soft  dreams  of  love  oppressed. 
O my  beloved,  my  sweet  Hesperus ! 

My  morning  and  my  evening  star  of  love ! 

My  best  and  gentlest  lady ! even  thus. 

As  that  fair  planet  in  the  sky  above. 

Dost  thou  retire  unto  thy  rest  at  night. 

And  from  thy  darkened  window  fades  the  light. 


AUTUMN. 

Thou  comest,  Autumn,  heralded  by  the  rain, 
With  banners,  by  great  gales  incessant  fanned, 
Brighter  than  brightest  silks  of  Samarcand, 
And  stately  oxen  harnessed  to  thy  wain  ! 

Thou  standest,  like  imperial  Charlemagne, 
Upon  thy  bridge  of  gold  ; thy  royal  hand 
Outstretched  with  benedictions  o’er  the  Ifind, 
Blessing  the  farms  through  all  thy  vast  domain. 
Thy  shield  is  the  red  harvest  moon,  suspended 
(281) 


282 


POEJMS. 


So  long  beneath  the  heaven’s  o’erhangiug  eaves, 
Thy  steps  are  by  the  farmer’s  prayers  attended ; 
Like  flames  upon  an  altar  shine  the  sheaves  ; 

And,  following  thee,  in  thy  ovation  splendid, 

Thine  almoner,  the  wind,  scatters  the  golden  leaves ! 


DANTE. 

Tuscan,  that  wanderest  through  the  realms  of 
gloom. 

With  thoughtful  pace,  and  sad,  majestic  eyes. 

Stern  thoughts  and  awful  from  thy  soul  arise. 

Like  Farinata  from  his  fiery  tomb. 

Thy  sacred  song  is  like  the  trump  of  doom ; 

Yet  in  thy  heart  what  human  sympathies. 

What  soft  compassion  glows,  as  in  the  skies 
The  tender  stars  their  clouded  lamps  relume  ! 
Methinks  I see  thee  stand,  with  pallid  cheeks. 

By  Fra  Hilario  in  his  diocese. 

As  up  the  con  vent- walls,  in  golden  streaks. 

The  ascending  sunbeams  mark  the  day’s  decrease ; 
And,  as  he  asks  what  there  the  stranger  seeks. 

Thy  voice  along  the  cloister  whispers,  “ Peace ! ” 


TRANSLATIONS 


THE  HEMLOCK  TREE. 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

O Hemlock  tree ! O hemlock  tree  ! how  faithful 
are  thy  branches ! 

Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 

But  in  the  winter’s  frost  and  rime  ! 

O hemlock  tree  ! O hemlock  tree  ! how  faithful 
are  thy  branches ! 

O maiden  fair  ! O maiden  fair  ! how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity ! 

O maiden  fair  ! O maiden  fair ! how  faithless  is 
thy  bosom ! 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak’st  for 
thine  example ! 

So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings. 

But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings. 

The  nightingale,  the  nightingale,  thou  tak’st  for 
thine  example ! 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror 
of  thy  falsehood ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain. 

In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again. 

The  meadow  brook,  the  meadow  brook,  is  mirror 
of  thy  falsehood ! 

(285) 


286 


POEMS. 


ANNIE  OF  THARAW. 

FROM  THE  LOW  GERMAN  OF  SIMON  DACH. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  true  love  of  old, 

She  is  my  life,  and  my  goods,  and  my  gold. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  her  heart  once  again 
To  me  has  surrendered  in  joy  and  in  pain. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  riches,  my  good. 

Thou,  O my  soul,  my  flesh  and  my  blood ! 

Then  come  the  wild  weather,  come  sleet  or  come 
snow. 

We  will  stand  by  each  other,  however  it  blow. 

Oppression,  and  sickness,  and  sorrow,  and  pain. 
Shall  be  to  our  true  love  as  links  to  the  chain. 

As  the  palm-tree  standeth  so  straight  and  so  tall. 
The  more  the  hail  beats,  and  the  more  the  rains 
fall,— 


So  love  in  our  hearts  shall  grow  mighty  and 
strong. 

Through  crosses,  through  sorrows,  through  manifold 
wrong. 

Shouldst  thou  be  torn  from  me  to  wander  alone 

In  a desolate  land  where  the  sun  is  scarce 
known, — 

Through  forests  I ’ll  follow,  and  where  the  sea 
flows. 

Through  ice,  and  through  iron,  through  armies  of 
foes. 


STATUE  OVER  CATHEDRAL  DOOR.  287 


Annie  of  Tharaw,  my  light  and  my  sun, 

The  threads  of  our  two  lives  are  woven  in  one. 

Whate’er  I have  bidden  thee  thou  hast  obeyed, 
Whatever  forbidden  thou  hast  not  gainsaid. 

How  in  the  turmoil  of  life  can  love  stand. 

Where  there  is  not  one  heart,  and  one  mouth,  and 
one  hand? 

Some  seek  for  dissension,  and  trouble,  and  strife ; 
Like  a dog  and  a cat  live  such  man  and  wife. 

Annie  of  Tharaw,  such  is  not  our  love ; 

Thou  art  my  lambkin,  my  chick,  and  my  dove. 

Whate’er  my  desire  is,  in  thine  may  be  seen ; 

I am  king  of  the  household,  and  thou  art  its 
queen. 

It  is  this,  O my  Annie,  my  heart’s  sweetest  rest. 
That  makes  of  us  twain  but  one  soul  in  one 
breast. 

This  turns  to  a heaven  the  hut  where  we  dwell ; 
While  wrangling  soon  changes  a home  to  a hell. 


a’HE  STATUE  OYER  THE  CATHEDRAL 
DOOR. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

Forms  of  saints  and  kings  are  standing 
The  cathedral  door  above ; 

Yet  I saw  but  one  among  them 
Who  hath  soothed  my  soul  with  love. 


288 


POEMS. 


In  his  mantle, — wound  about  him, 

As  their  robes  the  sowers  wind, — 

Bore  he  swallows  and  their  fledglings, 

Flowers  and  weeds  of  every  kind. 

And  so  stands  he  calm  and  childlike. 

High  in  wind  and  tempest  wild ; 

O,  were  I like  him  exalted, 

I would  be  like  him,  a child ! 

And  my  songs, — green  leaves  and  blossoms, — 
To  the  doors  of  heaven  would  bear. 

Calling,  even  in  storm  and  tempest. 

Round  me  still  these  birds  of  air. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  CROSSBILL. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  JULIUS  MOSEN. 

On  the  cross  the  dying  Saviour 
Heavenward  lifts  his  eyelids  calm. 

Feels,  but  scarcely  feels,  a trembling 
In  his  pierced  and  bleeding  palm. 

And  by  all  the  world  forsaken. 

Sees  he  how  with  zealous  care 

At  the  ruthless  nail  of  iron 
A little  bird  is  striving  there. 

Stained  with  blood  and  never  tiring. 
With  its  beak  it  doth  not  cease. 

From  the  cross ’t  would  free  the  Saviour, 
Its  Creatures  Son  release. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS.  289 

And  the  Saviour  speaks  in  mildness : 

“ Blest  be  thou  of  all  the  good ! 

Bear,  as  token  of  this  moment, 

Marks  of  blood  and  holy  rood  ! ” 

And  that  bird  is  called  the  crossbill ; 

Covered  all  with  blood  so  clear. 

In  the  groVes  of  pine  it  singeth 

Songs,  like  legends,  strange  to  hear. 


THE  SEA  HATH  ITS  PEARLS. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINRICH  HEINE. 

The  sea  hath  its  pearls. 

The  heaven  hath  its  stars ; 

But  my  heart,  my  heart, 

My  heart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  the  heaven ; 

Yet  greater  is  my  heart, 

And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 
Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  youthful  maiden. 

Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 

]\Iy  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 
Are  melting  away  with  love  ! 


VOL.  I. 


19 


200 


POEMS. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 

FROM  THE  SINNGEDICHTE  OF  FRIEDRICH  VON  LOGAU 
SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

MONEY. 

Whekeunto  is  money  good  ? 

Who  has  it  not  wants  hardihood, 

Who  has  it  has  much  trouble  and  care, 
Who  once  has  had  it  lias  despair. 


THE  BEST  MEDICINES. 

Joy  and  Temperance  and  Repose 
Slam  the  door  on  the  doctor’s  nose. 


SIN. 

Man-like  is  it  to  fall  into  sin, 
Fiend-like  is  it  to  dwell  therein, 
Christ-like  is  it  for  sin  to  grieve, 
God-like  is  it  all  sin  to  leave. 


POVERTY  AND  BLINDNESS. 

A blind  man  is  a poor  man,  and  blind  a poor  man 

is; 

For  tlie  former  seeth  no  man,  and  the  latter  no 
man  sees. 


POETIC  APHORISMS. 


291 


LAW  OF  LIFF. 

Live  I,  so  live  I, 

To  my  Lord  heartily, 

To  my  Prince  faithfully, 

To  my  Neighbour  honestly. 
Die  I,  so  die  I. 


CREEDS. 

Lutheran,  Popish,  Calvinistic,  all  these  creeds  and 
doctrines  three 

Extant  are ; but  still  the  doubt  is,  where  Chris- 
tianity may  be. 


THE  RESTLESS  HEART. 

A millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever 
round ; 

If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind,  they  must 
themselves  be  ground. 


CHRISTIAN  LOVE. 

Whilom  Love  was  like  a fire,  and  warmth  and 
comfort  it  bespoke ; 

Hut,  alas  ! it  now  is  quenched,-  and  only  bites  us, 
like  the  smoke. 


ART  AND  TACT. 

Intelligence  and  courtesy  not  always  are  combined ; 
Often  in  a wooden  house  a golden  room  we  find. 


292 


POEMS. 


RETRIBUTION. 

Though  the  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  yet  they 
grind  exceeding  small, 

Though  with  patience  he  stands  waiting,  with  ex- 
actness grinds  he  all. 


TRUTH. 

AVhen  by  night  the  frogs  are  croaking,  kindle  but 
a torch’s  fire, 

Ha ! how  soon  they  all  are  silent ! Thus  Truth 
silences  the  liar. 


RHYMES. 

If  perhaps  these  rhymes  of  mine  should  sound  not 
well  in  strangers’  ears, 

They  have  only  to  bethink  them  that  it  happens 
so  with  theirs ; 

For  so  long  as  words,  like  mortals,  call  a fatherland 
their  own, 

I'liey  will  be  most  highly  valued  where  tiiey  are 
best  and  longest  known. 


CUEFEW. 


I. 


Solemnly,  mournfully, 
Dealing  its  dole, 

The  Curfew  Bell 
Is  beginning  to  toll. 

Cover  the  embers. 

And  put  out  the  light ; 

Toil  comes  with  the  morning, 
And  rest  with  the  night. 

Dark  grow  the  windows. 

And  quenched  is  the  fire  ; 

Sound  fades  into  silence, — 
All  footsteps  retire. 

No  voice  in  the  chambers. 

No  sound  in  the  hall ! 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all ! 


The  book  is  completed. 

And  closed,  like  the  day ; 

And  the  hand  that  has  written  it 
Lays  it  away. 


21)6 


POEMS. 


Dim  grow  its  fancies, 
Forgotten  they  lie ; 

Like  coals  in  the  ashes, 
They  darken  and  die. 

Song  sinks  into  silence, 

The  story  is  told, 

The  windows  are  darkened, 
The  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

Darker  and  darker 

The  black  shadows  fall  ^ 

Sleep  and  oblivion 
Reign  over  all. 


THE  SEASIDE  AND  THE  FIRESIDE. 


DEDICATION. 


As  one  who,  walking  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

Hears  round  about  him  voices  as  It  darkens, 

And  seeing  not  the  forms  from  which  they  come. 
Pauses  from  time  to  time,  and  turns  and  hearkens; 

So  walking  here  in  twilight,  O my  friends  ! 

I hear  your  voices,  softened  by  the  distance, 

And  pause,  and  turn  to  listen,  as  each  sends 
His  words  of  friendship,  comfort,  and  assistance. 

If  any  thought  of  mine,  or  sung  or  told. 

Has  ever  given  delight  or  consolation. 

Ye  have  repaid  me  back  a thousand  fold. 

By  every  friendly  sign  and  salutation. 

Thanks  for  the  sympathies  that  ye  have  shown  ! 

Thanks  for  each  kindly  word,  each  silent  token, 
That  teaches  me,  when  seeming  most  alone. 

Friends  are  around  us,  though  no  word  be  spoken. 

Kind  messages,  that  pass  from  land  to  land ; 

Kind  letters,  that  betray  the  heart’s  deep  hlstor>-. 
In  which  we  feel  the  pressure  of  a hand, — 

One  touch  of  fire, — and  all  the  rest  is  mystery ! 

The  pleasant  books,  that  silently  among 

Our  household  treasures  take  familiar  places. 
And  are  to  us  as  if  a living  tongue 

Spake  from  the  printed  leaves  or  pictured  faces  ! 
(299) 


:00 


DEDICATION. 


Perhaps  on  earth  I never  shall  behold. 

With  eye  of  sense,  your  outward  form  and  sem- 
blance ; 

Therefore  to  me  ye  never  will  grow  old, 

But  live  forever  young  in  my  remembrance. 

Never  grow  old,  nor  change,  nor  pass  away ! 

Your  gentle  voices  will  flow  on  forever. 

When  life  grows  bare  and  tarnished  with  decay. 

As  through  a leafless  landscape  flows  a river. 

Not  chance  of  birth  or  place  has  made  us  friends. 
Being  oftentimes  of  different  tongues  and  nations. 
But  the  endeavour  for  the  selfsame  ends. 

With  the  same  hopes,  and  fears,  and  aspirations. 

Therefore  I hope  to  join  your  seaside  walk. 
Saddened,  and  mostly  silent,  with  emotion ; 

Not  interrupting  with  intrusive  talk 

The  grand,  majestic  symphonies  of  ocean. 

Therefore  I hope,  as  no  unwelcome  guest. 

At  your  warm  fireside,  when  the  lamps  are  lighted, 
To  have  my  place  reserved  among  the  rest. 

Nor  stand  as  one  unsought  and  uninvited  ! 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


“ Build  me  straight,  O worthy  Master ! 

Staunch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel. 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle  ! ” 

The  merchant’s  word 
Delighted  the  Master  heard ; 

For  his  heart  was  in  his  work,  and  the  heart 
Giveth  grace  unto  every  Art. 

A quiet  smile  played  round  his  lips, 

As  the  eddies  and  dimples  of  the  tide 
Play  round  the  bows  of  ships. 

That  steadily  at  anchor  ride. 

And  with  a voice  that  was  full  of  glee. 

He  answered,  “ Ere  long  we  will  launch 
A vessel  as  goodly,  and  strong,  and  staunch, 
As  ever  weathered  a wintry  sea  ! ” 

And  first  with  nicest  skill  and  art, 

Perfect  and  finished  in  every  part, 

A little  model  the  Master  wrought, 

Which  should  be  to  the  larger  plan 
What  the  child  is  to  the  man. 

Its  counterpart  in  miniature ; 

That  with  a hand  more  swift  and  sure 
The  greater  labor  might  be  brought 
To  answer  to  his  inward  thought. 

And  as  he  labored,  his  mind  ran  o’er 
(303) 


304 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


The  various  ships  that  were  built  of  yore, 

And  above  them  all,  and  strangest  of  all 
Towered  the  Great  Harry,  crank  and  tall. 
Whose  picture  was  hanging  on  the  wall. 

With  bows  and  stern  raised  high  in  air. 

And  balconies  hanging  here  and  there. 

And  signal  lanterns  and  flags  afloat, 

And  eight  round  towers,  like  those  that  frown 
From  some  old  castle,  looking  down 
Upon  the  drawbridge  and  the  moat. 

And  he  said  with  a smile,  “ Our  ship,  I wis. 
Shall  be  of  another  form  than  this  ! ” 

It  was  of  another  form,  indeed  ; 

Built  for  freight,  and  yet  for  speed, 

A beautiful  and  gallant  craft ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  that  the  stress  of  the  blast. 
Pressing  down  upon  sail  and  mast. 

Might  not  the  sharp  bows  overwhelm  ; 

Broad  in  the  beam,  but  sloping  aft 
With  graceful  curve  and  slow  degrees. 

That  she  might  be  docile  to  the  helm. 

And  that  the  currents  of  parted  seas. 

Closing  behind,  with  mighty  force. 

Might  aid  and  not  impede  her  course. 

In  the  ship-yard  stood  the  Master, 

AVith  the  model  of  the  vessel. 

That  should  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! 

Covering  many  a rood  of  ground. 

Lay  the  timber  piled  around  ; ‘ 

Timber  of  chestnut,  and  elm,  and  oak. 

And  scattered  here  and  there,  with  these. 

The  knarred  and  crooked  cedar  knees  ; 
Brought  from  regions  far  away. 

From  Pascagoula’s  sunny  bay. 

And  the  banks  of  the  roaring  Roanoke  ! 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


305 


All  ! what  a wondrous  thing  it  is 
To  note  how  many  wheels  of  toil 
One  thought,  one  word,  can  set  in  motion  ! 
There ’s  not  a ship  that  sails  the  ocean. 

But  every  climate,  every  soil. 

Must  bring  its  tribute,  great  or  small. 

And  help  to  build  the  wooden  wall ! 

The  sun  was  rising  o’er  the  sea. 

And  long  the  level  shadows  lay. 

As  if  they,  too,  the  beams  would  be 
Of*  some  great,  airy  argosy. 

Framed  and  launched  in  a single  day. 

That  silent  architect,  the  sun. 

Had  hewn  and  laid  them  every  one. 

Ere  the  work  of  man  was  yet  begun. 

Beside  the  Master,  when  he  spoke, 

A youth,  against  an  anchor  leaning. 

Listened,  to  catch  his  slightest  meaning. 

Only  the  long  waves,  as  they  broke 
In  ripples  on  the  pebbly  beach. 

Interrupted  the  old  man’s  speech. 

Beautiful  they  were,  in  sooth, 

The  old  man  and  the  fiery  youth  ! 

The  old  man,  in  whose  busy  brain 
Many  a ship  that  sailed  the  main 
Was  modelled  o’er  and  o’er  again  ; — 

The  fiery  youth,  who  was  to  be 
The  heir  of  his  dexterity, 

The  heir  of  his  house,  and  his  daughter’s  hand, 
When  he  had  built  and  launched  from  land 
What  the  elder  head  had  planned. 

“ Thus,”  said  he,  will  we  build  this  ship  ! 

Lay  square' the  blocks  upon  the  slip. 

And  follow  well  this  plan  of  mine. 

Choose  the  timbers  with  greatest  care  ; 

Of  all  that  is  unsound  beware ; 

VOL.  I.  20 


306 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


For  only  what  is  sound  and  strong 
To  this  vessel  shall  belong. 

Cedar  of  Maine  and  Georgia  pine 
Here  together  shall  combine. 

A goodly  frame,  and  a goodly  fame, 

And  the  Union  be  her  name ! 

For  the  day  that  gives  her  to  the  sea 
Shall  give  my  daughter  unto  thee  ! ” 

The  Master’s  word 

Enraptured  the  young  man  heard  ; 

And  as  he  turned  his  face  aside, 

With  a look  of  joy  and  a thrill  of  pride, 
Standing  before 
Her  father’s  door. 

He  saw  the  form  of  his  promised  bride. 

The  sun  shone  on  her  golden  hair. 

And  her  cheek  was  glowing  fresh  and  fair, 
With  the  breath  of  morn  and  the  soft  sea  air 
Like  a beauteous  barge  was  she. 

Still  at  rest  on  the  sandy  beach. 

Just  beyond  the  billow’s  reach ; 

But  he. 

Was  the  restless,  seething,  stormy  sea ! 

Ah,  how  skilful  grows  the  hand 
That  obeyeth  Love’s  command  ! 

It  is  the  heart,  and  not  the  brain. 

That  to  the  highest  doth  attain. 

And  he  who  followeth  Love’s  behest 
Far  exceedeth  all  the  rest! 

Thus  with  the  rising  of  the  sun 
Was  the  noble  task  begun. 

And  soon  throughout  the  ship-yard’s  bounds 
Were  heard  the  intermingled  sounds 
Of  axes  and  of  mallets,  plied 
With  vigorous  arms  on  every  side ; 

Plied  so  deftly  and  so  well, 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


307 


That,  ere  the  shadows  of  evening  fell, 

The  keel  of  oak  for  a noble  ship. 

Scarfed  and  bolted,  straight  and  strong, 

Was  lying  ready,  and  stretched  along 
The  blocks,  well  placed  upon  the  slip. 

Happy,  thrice  happy,  every  one 
Who  sees  his  labor  well  begun. 

And  not  perplexed  and  multiplied. 

By  idly  waiting  for  time  and  tide ! 

And  when  the  hot,  long  day  was  o’er. 

The  young  man  at  the  Master’s  door 
Sat  with  the  maiden  calm  and  still. 

And  within  the  porch,  a little  more 
Removed  beyond  the  evening  chill. 

The  father  sat,  and  told  them  tales 
Of  wrecks  in  the  great  September  gales. 

Of  pirates  upon  the  Spanish  Main, 

And  ships  that  never  came  back  again. 

The  chance  and  change  of  a sailor’s  life. 

Want  and  plenty,  rest  and  stiife, 

His  roving  fancy,  like  the  wind, 

That  nothing  can  stay  and  nothing  can  bind, 
And  the  magic  charm  of  foreign  lands, 

With  shadows  of  palms,  and  shining  sands. 
Where  the  tumbling  surf. 

O’er  the  coral  reefs  of  Madagascar, 

Washes  the  feet  of  the  swarthy  Lascar, 

As  he  lies  alone  and  asleep  on  the  turf. 

And  the  trembling  maiden  held  her  breath 
At  the  tales  of  that  awful,  pitiless  sea. 

With  all  its  terror  and  mystery. 

The  dim,  dark  sea,  so  like  unto  Death, 

That  divides  and  yet  unites  mankind  ! 

And  whenever  the  old  man  paused,  a gleam 
From  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  would  awhile  illume 
The  silent  group  in  the  twilight  gloom. 

And  thoughtful  faces,  as  in  a dream  ; 

And  for  a moment  one  might  mark 


308 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


What  had  been  hidden  by  the  dark, 

That  the  head  of  the  maiden  lay  at  rest, 
Tenderly,  on  the  young  man’s  breast ! 

Day  by  day  the  vessel  grew, 

With  timbers  fashioned  strong  and  true, 
Stemson  and  keelson  and  sternson-knee, 

Till,  framed  with  perfect  symmetry, 

A skeleton  ship  rose  up  to  view  ! 

And  around  the  bows  and  along  the  side 
The  heavy  hammers  and  mallets  plied. 

Till  after  many  a week,  at  length. 

Wonderful  for  form  and  strength. 

Sublime  in  its  enormous  bulk, 

Loomed  aloft  the  shadowy  hulk  ! 

And  around  it  columns  of  smoke,  upwreathing, 
Rose  from  the  boiling,  bubbling,  seething 
Caldron,  that  glowed. 

And  overflowed 

With  the  black  tar,  heated  for  the  sheathing. 
And  amid  the  clamors 
Of  clattering  hamme-rs. 

He  who  listened  heard  now  and  then 
The  song  of  the  Master  and  his  men  : — 

Build  me  straight,  O worthy  Master, 

Staunch  and  strong,  a goodly  vessel. 

That  shall  laugh  at  all  disaster. 

And  with  wave  and  whirlwind  wrestle ! ” 

With  oaken  brace  and  copper  band. 

Lay  the  rudder  on  the  sand. 

That,  like  a thought,  should  have  control 
Over  the  movement  of  the  whole  ; 

And  near  it  the  anchor,  whose  giant  hand 
Would  reach  down  and  grapple  with  the  land, 
And  immovable  and  fast 

Hold  the  great  ship  against  the  bellowing  blast 
And  at  the  bows  an  image  stood, 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


309 


By  a cunning  artist  carved  in  wood, 

With  robes  of  white,  that  far  behind 
Seemed  to  be  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

It  was  not  shaped  in  a classic  mould. 

Not  like  a Nymph  or  Goddess  of  old. 

Or  Naiad  rising  from  the  water, 

But  modelled  from  the  Master’s  daughter  ! 

On  many  a dreary  and  misty  night, 

'T  will  be  seen  by  the  rays  of  the  signal  light. 
Speeding  along  through  the  rain  and  the  dark, 
Like  a ghost  in  its  snow-white  sark. 

The  pilot  of  some  phantom  bark. 

Guiding  the  vessel,  in  its  flight. 

By  a path  none  other  knows  aright ! 

Behold,  at  last. 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast 
Is  swung  into  its  place  ; 

Shrouds  and  stays 
Holding  it  firm  and  fast ! 

Long  ago. 

In  the  deer-haunted  forests  of  Maine,. 

When  upon  mountain  and  plain 
Lay  the  snow, 

They  fell, — those  lordly  pines  ! 

Those  grand,  majestic  pines  ! 

’Mid  shouts  and  cheers 
The  jaded  steers. 

Panting  beneath  the  goad, 

Dragged  down  the  weary,  winding  road 
Those  captive  kings  so  straight  and  tall. 

To  be  shorn  of  their  streaming  hair. 

And,  naked  and  bare. 

To  feel  the  stress  and  the  strain 
Of  the  wind  and  the  reeling  main. 

Whose  roar 

Would  remind  them  forevermore 

Of  their  native  forests  they  should  not  see  again. 


810 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


And  everywhere 

The  slender,  graceful  spars 

Poise  aloft  in  the  air, 

And  at  the  mast  he^ad. 

White,  blue,  and  red, 

A flag  unrolls  the  stripes  and  stars. 

Ah  ! when  the  wanderer,  lonely,  friendless. 

In  foreign  harbours  shall  behold 
That  flag  unrolled, 

’T  will  be  as  a friendly  hand 
Stretched  out  from  his  native  land, 

Filling  his  heart  with  memoriessweet  and  endless 

All  is  finished  ! and  at  length 
Has  come  the  bridal  day 
Of  beauty  and  of  strength. 

To-day  the  vessel  shall  be  launched  ! 

With  fleecy  clouds  the  sky  is  blanched, 

And  o’er  the  bay. 

Slowly,  in  all  his  splendors  dight. 

The  great  sun  rises  to  behold  the  sight. 

The  ocean  old. 

Centuries  old. 

Strong  as  youth,  and  as  uncontrolled, 

Paces  restless  to  and  fro. 

Up  and  down  the  sands  of  gold. 

His  beating  heart  is  not  at  rest ; 

And  far  and  wide. 

With  ceaseless  flow. 

His  beard  of  snow 

Heaves  with  the  heaving  of  his  breast. 

He  waits  impatient  for  his  bride. 

There  she  stands. 

With  her  foot  upon  the  sands. 

Decked  with  flags  and  streamers  gay. 

In  honor  of  her  marriage  day. 

Her  snow-white  signals  fluttering,  blending. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


811 


Round  her  like  a veil  descending, 

Ready  to  be 

The  bride  of  the  gray,  old  sea. 

On  the  deck  another  bride 
Is  standing  by  her  lover’s  side. 

Shadows  from  the  flags  and  shrouds, 
Like  the  shadows  cast  by  clouds, 

Broken  by  many  a sunny  fleck, 

Fall  around  them  on  the  deck. 

The  prayer  is  said. 

The  service  read. 

The  joyous  bridegroom  bows  his  head 
And  in  tears  the  good  old  Master 
Shakes  the  brown  hand  of  his  son. 

Kisses  his  daughter’s  glowing  cheek 
In  silence,  for  he  cannot  speak, 

And  ever  faster 

Down  his  own  the  tears  begin  to  run. 

The  worthy  pastor — 

The  shepherd  of  that  wandering  flock, 
That  has  the  ocean  for  its  wold. 

That  has  the  vessel  for  its  fold, 

Leaping  ever  from  rock  to  rock — 

Spake,  with  accents  mild  and  clear. 
Words  of  warning,  words  of  cheer. 

But  tedious  to  the  bridegroom’s  ear. 

He  knew  the  chart 
Of  the  sailor’s  heart. 

All  its  pleasures  and  its  griefs. 

All  its  shallows  and  rocky  reefs. 

All  those  secret  currents,  that  flow 
With  such  resistless  undertow. 

And  lift  and  drift,  with  terrible  force. 
The  will  from  its  moorings  and  its  course. 
Therefore  he  spake,  and  thus  said  he : — 

“ Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 


812 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


Before,  behind,  and  all  around. 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon’s  bound. 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies. 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink. 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah  ! it  is  not  the  sea. 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion. 

Now  touching  the  very  skies. 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  ! if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 
Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring. 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do. 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 
The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 
The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear. 
Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear  ! ” 

Then  the  Master, 

With  a gesture  of  command. 

Waved  his  hand ; 

And  at  the  word. 

Loud  and  sudden  there  was  heard. 

All  around  them  and  below, 

'The  sound  of  hammers,  blow  on  blow, 
Knocking  away  the  shores  and  spurs. 

And  see  ! she  stirs  ! 

She  starts, — she  moves, — she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel. 

And,  spurning  with  her  foot  the  ground, 
With  one  exulting,  joyous  bound. 

She  leaps  into  the  ocean’s  arms ! 

And  lo  ! from  the  assembled  crowd 
There  rose  a shout,  prolonged  and  loud. 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  SHIP. 


313 


That  to  the  ocean  seemed  to  say,— 

“ Take  her,  O bridegroom,  old  and  gray, 
Take  her  to  thy  protecting  arms. 

With  all  her  youth  and  all  her  charms  ! ” 

How  beautiful  she  is ! How  fair 
She  lies  within  those  arms,  that  press 
Her  form  with  many  a soft  caress 
Of  tenderness  and  watchful  care  ! 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea,  O ship  ! 

Through  wind  and  wave,  right  onward  steer  I 
The  moistened  eye,  the  trembling  lip. 

Are  not  the  signs  of  doubt  or  fear. 

Sail  forth  into  the  sea  of  life, 

O gentle,  loving,  trusting  wife, 

And  safe  from  all  adversity 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  sea 
Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  be ! 

For  gentleness  and  love  and  trust 
Prevail  o’er  angry  wave  and  gust ; 

And  in  the  wreck  of  noble  lives 
Something  immortal  still  survives  I 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O Ship  of  State  ! 

Sail  on,  O Union,  strong  and  great ! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears. 

With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years. 

Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 

What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel. 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat. 

In  what  a forge  and  what  a heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope  ! 

Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 

’T  is  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock ; 

’T  is  but  the  flapping  of  the  sail, 

And  not  a rent  made  by  the  gale  ! 


314 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest’s  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea  ! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee. 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o’er  our  fears. 

Are  all  with  thee, — are  all  with  thee ! 


THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Just  above  yon  sandy  bar. 

As  the  day  grows  fainter  and  dimmer. 

Lonely  and  lovely,  a single  star 

Lights  the  air  with  a dusky  glimmer. 

Into  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Falls  the  trail  of  its  golden  splendor. 

And  the  gleam  of  that  single  star 
Is  ever  refulgent,  soft,  and  tender. 

Chrysaor  rising  out  of  the  sea. 

Showed  thus  glorious  and  thus  emulous. 

Leaving  the  arms  of  Calhrrhoe, 

Forever  tender,  soft,  and  tremulous. 

Thus  o’er  the  ocean  faint  and  far 

Trailed  the  gleam  of  his  falchion  brightly  ; 

Is  it  a God,  or  is  it  a star 

That,  entranced,  I gaze  on  nightly ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 


815 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 

Ah  ! what  pleasant  visions  haunt  me 
As  I gaze  upon  the  sea ! 

All  the  old  romantic  legends, 

All  my  dreams,  come  back  to  me. 

Sails  of  silk  and  ropes  of  sendal. 

Such  as  gleam  in  ancient  lore  ; 

And  the  singing  of  the  sailors. 

And  the  answer  from  the  shore  ! 

Most  of  all,  the  Spanish  ballad 
Haunts  me  oft,  and  tarries  long. 

Of  the  noble  Count  Arnaldos 
And  the  sailor’s  mystic  song. 

Like  the  long  waves  on  a sea-beach. 
Where  the  sand  as  silver  shines. 

With  a soft,  monotonous  cadence. 

Flow  its  unrhymed  lyric  lines ; — 

Telling  how  the  Count  Arnaldos, 

With  his  hawk  upon  his  hand. 

Saw  a fair  and  stately  galley. 

Steering  onward  to  the  land ; — 

How  he  heard  the  ancient  helmsman 
Chant  a song  so  wild  and  clear. 

That  the  sailing  sea-bird  slowly 
Poised  upon  the  mast  to  hear. 

Till  his  soul  was  full  of  longing, 

And  he  cried,  with  impulse  strong, — 

‘‘  Helmsman  ! for  the  love  of  heaven. 
Teach  me,  too,  that  wondrous  song ! ” 


316 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


“ Wouldst  thou,” — so  the  helmsman  answered, 
“ Learn  the  secret  of  the  sea  V 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery  ! '' 

In  each  sail  that  skims  the  horizon, 

In  each  landward-blowing  breeze, 

I behold  that  stately  galley, 

Hear  those  mournful  melodies  ; 

Till  my  soul  is  full  of  longing 
For  the  secret  of  the  sea. 

And  the  heart  of  the  great  ocean 
Sends  a thrilling  pulse  through  me. 


TWILIGHT. 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy, 

The  wind  blows  wild  and  free. 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman’s  cottage 
There  shines  a ruddier  light. 

And  a little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night. 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 
As  if  those  childish  eyes 
Were  looking  into  the  darkness. 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a woman’s  waving  shadow 
Is  passing  to  and  fro. 

Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowins:  and  bendinjj  low. 

o r) 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 


317 


What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  bleak  and  wild, 
As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement. 

Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean. 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak. 
As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 


SIR  HUMPHREY  GILBERT. 

Southward  with  fleet  of  ice 
Sailed  the  corsair  Death  ; 

Wild  and  fast  blew  the  blast. 

And  the  east-wind  was  his  breath. 

His  lordly  ships  of  ice 
Glistened  in  the  sun ; 

On  each  side,  like  pennons  wide. 
Flashing  crystal  streamlets  run. 

His  sails  of  white  sea-mist 
Dripped  with  silver  rain  ; 

But  where  he  passed  there  were  cast 
Leaden  shadows  o’er  the  main. 

Eastward  from  Campobello 
Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert  sailed ; 

Three  days  or  more  seaward  he  bore, 
Then,  alas ! the  land-wind  failed. 

Alas ! the  land-wind  failed. 

And  ice-cold  grew  the  night ; 

And  never  more,  on  sea  or  shore, 
Should  Sir  Humphrey  see  the  light. 


318 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


He  sat  upon  the  deck, 

The  Book  was  in  his  hand ; 

“ Do  not  fear ! Heaven  is  as  near,” 

He  said,  “ by  water  as  by  land ! ” 

In  the  first  watch  of  the  night, 

Without  a signal’s  sound. 

Out  of  the  sea,  mysteriously, 

The  fleet  of  Death  rose  all  around. 

The  moon  and  the  evening  star 
Were  hanging  in  the  shrouds  ; 

Every  mast,  as  it  passed, 

Seemed  to  rake  the  passing  clouds. 

They  grappled  with  their  prize. 

At  midnight  black  and  cold  ! 

As  of  a rock  was  the  shock  ; 

Heavily  the  ground-swell  rolled. 

Southward  through  day  and  dark. 

They  drift  in  close  embrace, 

With  mist  and  rain,  to  the  Spanish  Main, 
Yet  there  seems  no  change  of  place. 

Southward,  forever  southward. 

They  drift  through  dark  and  day  ; 

And  like  a dream,  in  the  Gulf-Stream 
Sinking,  vanish  all  away. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 

The  rocky  ledge  runs  far  into  the  sea. 

And  on  its  outer  point,  some  miles  away^ 
The  Lighthouse  lifts  its  massive  masonry, 

A pillar  of  fire  by  night,  of  cloud  by  day. 


THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


319 


Even  at  this  distance  I can  see  the  tides, 
Upheaving,  break  unheard  along  its  base, 

A speechless  wrath,  that  rises  and  subsides 
In  the  white  lip  and  tremor  of  the  face. 

And  as  the  evening  darkens,  lo  ! how  bright. 
Through  the  deep  purple  of  the  twilight  air. 
Beams  forth  the  sudden  radiance  of  its  light 
With  strange,  unearthly  splendor  in  its  glare  ! 

Not  one  alone ; from  each  projecting  cape 
And  perilous  reef  along  the  ocean’s  verge. 

Starts  into  life  a dim,  gigantic  shape, 

Holdino[  its  lantern  o’er  the  restless  sur^e. 

Like  the  great  giant  Christopher  it  stands 
Upon  the  brink  of  ^he  tempestuous  wave, 
Wading  far  out  among  the  rocks  and  sands. 

The  night-o’ertaken  mariner  to  save. 

And  the  great  ships  sail  outward  and  return. 
Bending  and  bowing  o’er  the  billowy  swells. 
And  ever  joyful,  as  they  see  it  burn. 

They  wave  their  silent  welcomes  and  farewells. 

They  come  forth  from  the  darkness,  and  their  sails 
Gleam  for  a, moment  only  in  the  blaze. 

And  eager  faces,  as  the  light  unveils. 

Gaze  at  the  tower,  and  vanish  while  they  gaze. 

The  mariner  remembers  when  a child. 

On  his  first  voyage,  he  saw  it  fade  and  sink  ; 
And  when,  returning  from  adventures  wild. 

He  saw  it  rise  again  o’er  ocean’s  brink. 

Steadfast,  serene,  immovable,  the  same 

Year  after  year,  through  all  the  silent  night, 
Burns  on  forevermore  that  quenchless  flame. 
Shines  on  that  inextinguishable  light ! 


320 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


It  sees  the  ocean  to  its  bosom  clasp 

The  rocks  and  sea-sand  with  the  kiss  of  peace ; 

It  sees  the  wild  winds  lift  it  in  their  grasp, 

And  hold  it  up,  and  shake  it  like  a fleece. 

The  startled  waves  leap  over  it ; the  storm 
Smites  it  with  all  the  scourges  of  the  rain, 

And  steadily  against  its  solid  form 

Press  the  great  shoulders  of  the  hurricane. 

The  sea-bird  wheeling  round  it,  with  the  din 
Of  wings  and  winds  and  solitary  cries. 

Blinded  and  maddened  by  the  light  within. 
Dashes  himself  against  the  glare,  and  dies. 

A new  Prometheus,  chained  upon  the  rock, 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  the  fire  of  Jove, 

It  does  not  hear  the  cry,  nor  heed  the  shock. 

But  hails  the  mariner  with  words  of  love. 

“ Sail  on  ! ” it  says,  “ sail  on,  ye  stately  ships  ! 

And  with  your  floating  bridge  the  ocean  span ; 

Be  mine  to  guard  this  light  from  all  eclipse. 

Be  yours  to  bring  man  nearer  unto  man  ! 


THE  PIPE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old. 

Whose  windows,  looking  o’er  the  bay. 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold. 

An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, — 
The  light-house,  the  dismantled  fort, — 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 


321 


We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room  ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight. 

Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a vanished  scene, 

Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said. 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been. 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 

.When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 

Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again  ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 

That  words  are  powerless  to  express. 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 

Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 

Had  something  strange,  I could  but  mark ; 

The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips. 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 

Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships. 

The  flames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed. 

We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, — 

Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 

The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, — 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, — 

The  gusty  blast, — the  bickering  flames, — 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech ; 

VOL.  I.  21 


322 


BY  THE  SEASIDE. 


Until  they  made  themselves  a part 

Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, — 
The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 

That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

O flames  that  glowed ! O hearts  that  yearned  1 
They  were  indeed  too  much  akin, 

The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned. 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed  within. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


RESIGNATION. 


There  is  no  flock,  however  watched  and  tended 
But  one  dead  lamb  is  there  ! 

There  is  no  fireside,  howsoe’er  defended, 

But  has  one  vacant  chair  ! 

The  air  is  full  of  farewells  to  the  dying. 

And  mournings  for  the  dead  ; 

The  heart  of  Rachel,  for  her  children  crying, 
Will  not  be  comforted  ! 

Let  us  be  patient ! These  severe  afflictions 
Not  from  the  ground  arise. 

But  oftentimes  celestial  benedictions 
Assume  this  dark  disguise. 

We  see  but  dimly  through  the  mists  and  vapors 
Amid  these  earthly  damps. 

What  seem  to  us  but  sad,  funereal  tapers 
May  be  heaven’s  distant  lamps. 

There  is  no  Death  ! What  seems  so  is  transition. 
This  life  of  mortal  breath 

Is  but  a suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

She  is  not  dead, — the  child  of  our  affection, — 
But  gone  unto  that  school 

Where  she  no  longer  needs  our  poor  protection, 
And  Christ  himself  doth  rule. 

(325) 


326 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


In  tliat  great  cloister’s  stillness  and  seclusion, 

By  guardian  angels  led, 

Safe  from  temptation,  safe  from  sin’s  pollution. 

She  lives,  whom  we  call  dead. 

Day  after  day  we  think  what  she  is  doing 
In  those  bright  realms  of  air ; 

Year  after  year,  her  tender  steps  pursuing. 

Behold  her  grown  more  fair. 

Thus  do  we  walk  with  her,  and  keep  unbroken 
The  bond  which  nature  gives. 

Thinking  that  our  remembrance,  though  unspoken. 
May  reach  her  where  she  lives. 

Not  as  a child  shall  we  again  behold  her ; 

For  when  with  raptures  wild 

In  our  embraces  we  again  enfold  her, 

She  will  not  be  a child  ; 

But  a fair  maiden,  in  her  Father’s  mansion. 
Clothed  with  celestial  grace ; 

And  beautiful  with  all  the  soul’s  expansion 
Shall  we  behold  her  face. 

And  though  at  times  impetuous  with  emotion 
And  anguish  long  suppressed. 

The  swelling  heart  heaves  moaning  like  the  ocean, 
That  cannot  be  at  rest, — 

We  will  be  patient,  and  assuage  the  feeling 
We  may  not  wholly  stay ; 

By  silence  sanctifying,  not  concealing. 

The  grief  that  must  have  way. 


THE  BUILDERS. 


327 


THE  BUILDERS. 

All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time  ; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low ; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best ; 

And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest. 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise. 

Time  is  with  materials  filled  ; 

Our  to-days  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fashion  these ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between  ; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees. 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  Art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part ; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  well. 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen  ; 

Make  the  house,  where  Gods  may  dwell, 
Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 

Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 
Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 
Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 


328 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Build  to-day,  then,  strong  and  sure, 
With  a firm  and  ample  base  ; 
And  ascending  and  secure 
Shall  to-morrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 
Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 
And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT  IN  AN  HOUR- 
GLASS. 

A HANDFUL  of  red  sand,  from  the  hot  clime 
Of  Arab  deserts  brought. 

Within  this  glass  becomes  the  spy  of  Time, 

The  minister  of  Thought. 

How  many  weary  centuries  has  it  been 
About  those  deserts  blown  ! 

How  many  strange  vicissitudes  has  seen. 

How  many  histories  known  ! 

Perhaps  the  camels  of  the  Ishmaelite 
Trampled  and  passed  it  o’er. 

When  into  Egypt  from  the  patriarch’s  sight 
His  favorite  son  they  bore. 

Perhaps  the  feet  of  Moses,  burnt  and  bare, 
Crushed  it  beneath  their  tread; 

Or  Pharaoh’s  flashing  wheels  into  the  air 
Scattered  it  as  they  sped  ; 

Or  Mary,  with  the  Christ  of  Nazareth 
Held  close  in  her  caress. 

Whose  pilgrimage  of  hope  and  love  and  faith 
Illumed  the  wilderness ; 


SAND  OF  THE  DESERT. 


329 


Or  anchorites  beneath  Engaddi’s  palms 
Pacing  the  Dead  Sea  beach, 

And  singing  slow  their  old  Armenian  psalms 
In  half-articulate  speech ; 

Or  caravans,  that  from  Bassora’s  gate 
With  westward  steps  depart ; 

Or  Mecca’s  pilgrims,  confident  of  Fate, 

And  resolute  in  heart ! 

These  have  passed  over  it,  or  may  have  passed ! 
Now  in  this  crystal  tower 

Imprisoned  by  some  curious  hand  at  last. 

It  counts  the  passing  hour. 

And  as  I gaze,  these  narrow  walls  expand ; — 
Before  my  dreamy  eye 

Stretches  the  desert  with  its  shifting  sand, 

Its  unimpeded  sky. 

And  borne  aloft  by  the  sustaining  blast. 

This  little  golden,  thread 

Dilates  into  a column  high  and  vast, 

A form  of  fear  and  dread. 

And  onward,  and  across  the  setting  sun. 

Across  the  boundless  plain. 

The  column  and  its  broader  shadow  run. 

Till  thought  pursues  in  vain. 

The  vision  vanishes ! These  walls  again 
Shut  out  the  lurid  sun. 

Shut  out  the  hot,  immeasurable  plain  ; 

The  half-hour’s  sand  is  run  ! 


330 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 

Black  shadows  fall 
From  the  lindens  tall, 

That  lift  aloft  their  massive  wall 
Against  the  southern  sky ; 

And  from  the  realms 
Of  the  shadowy  elms 
A tide-like  darkness  overwhelms 
The  fields  that  round  us  lie. 

But  the  night  is  fair, 

And  everywhere 
A warm,  soft,  vapor  fills  the  air. 

And  distant  sounds  seem  near ; 

And  above,  in  the  light 
Of  the  star-lit  night. 

Swift  birds  of  passage  wing  their  flight 
Through  the  dewy  atmosphere. 

I hear  the  beat 
Of  their  pinions  fleet. 

As  from  the  land  of  snow  and  sleet 
They  seek  a southern  lea. 

I hear  the  cry 

Of  their  voices  high 

Falling  dreamily  through  the  sky. 

But  their  forms  I cannot  see. 

O,  say  not  so  ! 

Those  sounds  that  flow 
In  murmurs  of  delight  and  woe 
Come  not  from  wings  of  birds. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 


331 


They  are  the  throngs 
Of  the  poet's  songs, 

Murmurs  of  pleasures,  and  pains,  and  wrongs, 
The  sound  of  winged  words. 

This  is  the  cry 

Of  souls,  that  high 

On  toiling,  beating  pinions,  fly. 

Seeking  a warmer  clime. 

From  their  distant  flight 
Through  realms  of  light 
It  falls  into  our  world  of  night. 

With  the  murmuring  sound  of  rhyme. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade. 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air  ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children. 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door  ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates. 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens. 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 


332 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 
With  sweet,  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone  ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 
Why  closer  in  mine,  ah  ! closer, 

I pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand ! 


KING  WITLAF’S  DBINKING-HOBN. 

WiTLAF,  a king  of  the  Saxons, 

Ere  yet  his  last  he  breathed. 

To  the  merry  monks  of  Croyland 
His  drinking-horn  bequeathed, — 

That,  whenever  they  sat  at  their  revels. 
And  drank  from  the  golden  bowl. 

They  might  remember  the  donor. 

And  breathe  a prayer  for  his  soul. 

So  sat  they  once  at  Christmas, 

And  bade  the  goblet  pass  ; 

In  their  beards  the  red  wine  glistened 
Like  dew-drops  in  the  grass. 

They  drank  to  the  soul  of  Witlaf, 

They  drank  to  Christ  the  Lord, 

And  to  each  of  the  Twelve  Apostles, 
Who  had  preached  his  holy  word. 

They  drank  to  the  Saints  and  Martyrs 
Of  the  dismal  days  of  yore, 

And  as  soon  as  the  horn  was  empty 
They  remembered  one  Saint  more. 


GASPAR  BECERRA. 


333 


And  the  reader  droned  from  the  pulpit, 
Like  the  murmur  of  many  bees, 

The  legend  of  good  Saint  Guthlac, 

And  Saint  Basifs  homilies ; 

Till  the  great  bells  of  the  convent, 

From  their  prison  in  the  tower, 

Guthlac  and  Bartholommus, 

Proclaimed  the  midnight  hour. 

And  the  Yule-log  cracked  in  the  chimney. 
And  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 

And  the  flamelets  flapped  and  flickered, 
But  the  Abbot  was  stark  and  dead. 

Yet  still  in  his  pallid  fingers 
He  clutched  the  golden  bowl. 

In  which,  like  a pearl  dissolving. 

Had  sunk  and  dissolved  his  soul. 

But  not  for  this  their  revels 
The  jovial  monks  forbore. 

For  they  cried,  “ Fill  high  the  goblet ! 

We  must  drink  to  one  Saint  more ! ” 


GASPAK  BECERRA. 

By  his  evening  fire  the  artist 
Pondered  o’er  his  secret  shame ; 
Baffled,  weary,  and  disheartened, 

Still  he  mused,  and  dreamed  of  fame. 

’T  was  an  image  of  the  Virgin 
That  had  tasked  his  utmost  skill ; 

But  alas  ! his  fair  ideal 

Vanished  and  escaped  him  still. 


334 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


From  a distant  Eastern  island 
Had  the  precious  wood  been  brought ; 
Day  and  night  the  anxious  master 
At  his  toil  untiring  wrought ; 

Till,  discouraged  and  desponding, 

Sat  he  now  in  shadows  deep. 

And  the  day’s  humiliation 
Found  oblivion  in  sleep. 

Then  a voice  cried,  ‘‘  Rise,  O master ! 

From  the  burning  brand  of  oak 
Shape  the  thought  that  stirs  within  thee !” 
And  the  startled  artist  woke, — 

Woke,  and  from  the  smoking  embers 

Seized  and  quenched  the  glowing  wood ; 
And  therefrom  he  carved  an  image. 

And  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 

O thou  sculptor,  painter,  poet ! 

Take  this  lesson  to  thy  heart : 

That  is  best  which  lieth  nearest ; 

Shape  from  that  thy  work  of  art. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 

Once  into  a quiet  village. 

Without  haste  and  without  heed, 

In  the  golden  prime  of  morning. 

Strayed  the  poet’s  winged  steed. 

It  was  Autumn,  and  incessant 

Piped  the  quails  from  shocks  and  sheaves, 
And,  like  living  coals,  the  apples 
Burned  among  the  withering  leaves. 


PEGASUS  IN  POUND. 


335 


Loud  the  clamorous  bell  was  ring!  tig 
From  its  belfry  gaunt  and  grim ; 

’T  was  the  daily  call  to  labor, 

Not  a triumph  meant  for  him. 

Not  the  less  he  saw  the  landscape, 

In  its  gleaming  vapor  veiled ; 

Not  the  less  he  breathed  the  odors 
That  the  dying  leaves  exhaled. 

Thus,  upon  the  village  common. 

By  the  school-boys  he  was  found  ; 

And  the  wise  men,  in  their  wisdom. 

Put  him  straightway  into  pound. 

Then  the  sombre  village  crier. 

Ringing  loud  his  brazen  bell. 

Wandered  down  the  street  proclaiming 
There  was  an  estray  to  sell. 

And  the  curious  country  people. 

Rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old. 

Came  in  haste  to  see  this  wondrous 
Winged  steed,  with  mane  of  gold. 

Thus  the  day  passed,  and  the  evening 
F ell,  with  vapors  cold  and  dim  ; 

But  it  brought  no  food  nor  shelter, 
Brought  no  straw  nor  stall,  for  him. 

Patiently,  and  still  expectant. 

Looked  he  through  the  wooden  bars. 

Saw  the  moon  rise  o’er  the  landscape. 
Saw  the  tranquil,  patient  stars ; 

Till  at  length  the  bell  at  midnight 
Sounded  from  its  dark  abode, 

And,  from  out  a neighbouring  farm-yard 
Loud  the  cock  Alectryon  crowed. 


336 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Then,  with  nostrils  wide  distended, 
Breaking  from  his  iron  chain. 

And  unfolding  far  his  pinions. 

To  those  stars  he  soared  again. 

On  the  morrow,  when  the  village 
Woke  to  all  its  toil  and  care, 

Lo ! the  strange  steed  had  departed. 
And  they  knew  not  when  nor  where. 

But  they  found,  upon  the  greensward 
Where  his  struggling  hoofs  had  trod. 
Pure  and  bright,  a fountain  flowing 
From  the  hoof-marks  in  the  sod. 

From  that  hour,  the  fount  unfailing 
Gladdens  the  whole  region  round, 
Strengthening  all  who  drink  its  waters, 
While  it  soothes  them  with  its  sound. 


TEGNER’S  DRAPA. 

I HEARD  a voice,  that  cried, 

‘‘  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead ! ” 

And  through  the  misty  air 
Passed  like  the  mournful  cry 
Of  sunward  sailing  cranes. 

I saw  the  pallid  corpse 
Of  the  dead  sun 

Borne  through  the  Northern  sky. 
Blasts  from  Niffelheim 
Lifted  the  sheeted  mists 
Around  him  as  he  passed. 


tegner’s  drapa. 


337 


And  the  voice  forever  cried, 

‘‘  Balder  the  Beautiful 
Is  dead,  is  dead  ! ” 

And  died  away 
Through  the  dreary  night, 

In  accents  of  despair. 

Balder  the  Beautiful, 

God  of  the  summer  sun, 

Fairest  of  all  the  Gods ! 

Light  from  his  forehead  beamed, 
Bunes  were  upon  his  tongue. 

As  on  the  warrior’s  sword. 

All  things  in  earth  and  air 
Bound  were  by  magic  spell 
Never  to  do  him  harm  ; 

Even  the  plants  and  stones  ; 

All  save  the  mistletoe. 

The  sacred  mistletoe  ! 

Hoeder,  the  blind  old  God, 

Whose  feet  are  shod  with  silence. 
Pierced  through  that  gentle  breast 
With  his  sharp  spear,  by  fraud 
Made  of  the  mistletoe. 

The  accursed  mistletoe ! 

They  laid  him  in  his  ship. 

With  horse  and  harness. 

As  on  a funeral  pyre. 

Odin  placed 
A ring  upon  his  finger. 

And  whispered  in  his  ear. 

They  launched  the  burning  ship  I 
It  floated  far  away 
Over  the  misty  sea, 

Till  like  the  sun  it  seemed, 

VOL.  I.  22 


338 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Sinking  beneath  the  waves. 
Balder  returned  no  more  ! 

So  perish  the  old  Gods ! 

But  out  of  the  sea  of  Time 
Rises  a new  land  of  song, 

Fairer  than  the  old. 

Over  its  meadows  green 
Walk  the  young  bards  and  sing. 

Build  it  again, 

O ye  bards, 

Fairer  than  before! 

Ye  fathers  of  the  new  race. 
Feed  upon  morning  dew. 

Sing  the  new  Song  of  Love ! 

The  law  of  force  is  dead ! 

The  law  of  love  prevails ! 

Thor,  the  thunderer. 

Shall  rule  the  earth  no  more, 
No  more,  with  threats. 
Challenge  the  meek  Christ. 

Sing  no  more, 

O ye  bards  of  the  North, 

Of  Yikings  and  of  Jarls ! 

Of  the  days  of  Eld 
Preserve  the  freedom  only 
Not  the  deeds  of  blood. 


THE  SINGERS. 


339 


SONNET. 

ON  MRS.  KEMBLE’S  READINGS  FROM  SHAKSPEARE. 

O PRECIOUS  evenings  ! all  too  swiftly  sped  ! 
Leaving  us  heirs  to  amplest  heritages 
Of  all  the  best  thoughts  of  the  greatest  sages, 

And  giving  tongues  unto  the  silent  dead  ! 

How  our  hearts  glowed  and  trembled  as  she  read, 
Interpreting  by  tones  the  wondrous  pages 
Of  the  great  poet  who  foreruns  the  ages. 
Anticipating  all  that  shall  be  said  ! 

O happy  Reader  ! having  for  thy  text 

The  magic  book,  whose  Sibylline  leaves  have  caught 

The  rarest  essence  of  all  human  thought ! 

O happy  Poet ! by  no  critic  vext ! 

How  must  thy  listening  spirit  now  rejoice 
To  be  interpreted  by  such  a voice ! 


THE  SINGERS. 

God  sent  his  Singers  upon  eartli 
With  songs  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

That  they  might  touch  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  bring  them  back  to  heaven  again. 

The  first,  a youth,  with  soul  of  fire, 

Held  in  his  hand  a golden  lyre ; 

Through  groves  he  wandered,  and  by  streams, 
Playing  the  music  of  our  dreams. 

The  second,  with  a bearded  face. 

Stood  singing  in  the  market-place. 

And  stirred  with  accents  deep  and  loud 
The  hearts  of  all  the  listening  crowd. 


340 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


A gray,  old  man,  the  third  and  last, 

Sang  in  cathedrals  dim  and  vast. 

While  the  majestic  organ  rolled 
Contrition  from  its  mouths  of  gold. 

And  those  who  heard  the  Singers  three 
Disputed  wliich  the  best  might  be ; 

For  still  their  music  seemed  to  start 
Discordant  echoes  in  each  heart. 

But  the  great  Master  said,  “ I see 
No  best  in  kind,  but  in  degree ; 

I gave  a various  gift  to  each. 

To  charm,  to  strengthen,  and  to  teach. 

“ These  are  the  three  great  chords  of  might, 
And  he  whose  ear  is  tuned  aright 
WTll  hear  no  discord  in  the  three. 

But  the  most  perfect  harmony.” 


SUSPIRIA. 

Take  them,  O Death ! and  bear  away 
Whatever  thou  canst  call  thine  own! 
Thine  image,  stamped  upon  this  clay. 
Doth  give  thee  that,  but  that  alone ! 

Take  them,  O Grave  1 and  let  them  lie 
Folded  upon  thy  narrow  shelves. 

As  garments  by  the  soul  laid  by. 

And  precious  only  to  ourselves  I 

Take  them,  O great  Eternity  ! 

Our  little  life  is  but  a gust. 

That  bends  the  branches  of  thy  tree. 
And  trails  its  blossoms  in  the  dust, 


HYMN. 


841 


HYMjN 

FOR  MY  brother’s  ORDINATION. 

Christ  to  the  young  man  said:  “Yet  one  thing 
more ; 

If  thou  wouldst  perfect  be, 

Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  it  to  the  poor, 

And  come  and  follow  me ! ” 

Within  this  temple  Christ  again,  unseen. 

Those  sacred  words  hath  said. 

And  his  invisible  hands  to-day  have  been 
Laid  on  a young  man’s  head. 

And  evermore  beside  him  on  his  way 
The  unseen  Christ  shall  move. 

That  he  may  lean  upon  his  arm  and  say, 

“ Dost  thou,  dear  Lord,  approve  ? ” 

Beside  him  at  the  marriage  feast  shall  be, 

To  make  the  scene  more  fair; 

Beside  him  in  the  dark  Gethsemane 
Of  pain  and  midnight  prayer. 

O holy  trust ! O endless  sense  of  rest ! 

Like  the  beloved  John 
To  lay  his  head  upon  the  Saviour’s  breast, 

And  thus  to  journey  on  ! 


BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTfeL-CUILLE. 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 


Only  the  Lowland  tongue  of  Scotland  might 
Kehearse  this  little  tragedy  aright: 

Let  me  attempt  it  with  an  English  quill ; 

And  take,  0 Reader,  for  the  deed  the  will. 


THE  BLIND  GIEL  OF  CASTEL-CUILT.E 


FROM  THE  GASCON  OF  JASMIN. 


At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 
Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuill^, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  anddhe  almond  tree 
In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white. 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 
On  a Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph’s  Eve : 

“The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay. 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! ” 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending. 

Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending  ; 

When  lo  ! a merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye. 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain. 

Came  to  the  cliff,  aU  singing  the  same  strain  ; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky. 

Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 

Together  blending. 

And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hill-side  steep. 


346 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 

Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home  ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day  !” 

It  is  Baptiste,  and  his  affianced  maiden, 

With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden  ! 

The  sky  was  blue  ; without  one  cloud  of  gloom. 
The  sun  of  March  was  shining  brightly, 

And  to  the  air  the  freshening  wind  gave  lightly 
Its  breathings  of  perfume. 

When  one  beholds  the  dusky  hedges  blossom, 

A rustic  bridal,  ah  ! how  sweet  it  is  ! 

To  sounds  of  joyous  melodies. 

That  touch  with  tenderness  the  trembling  bosom, 

A band  of  maidens 
Gayly  frolicking, 

A band  of  youngsters 
Wildly  rollicking ! 

Kissing, 

Caressing, 

With  fingers  pressing. 

Till  in  the  veriest 
Madness  of  mirth,  as  they  dance, 

They  retreat  and  advance. 

Trying  whose  laugh  shall  be  loudest  and 
merriest ; 

While  the  bride,  with  roguish  eyes, 

Sporting  with  them,  now  escapes  and  cries : 

“ Those  who  catch  me 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.  347 

Married  verily 
This  year  shall  be  ! ’’ 

And  all  pursue  with  eager  haste, 

And  all  attain  what  they  pursue, 

And  touch  her  pretty  apron  fresh  and  new, 

And  the  linen  kirtle  round  her  waist. 

Meanwhile,  whence  comes  it  that  among 
These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 

So  joyous,  with  such  laughing  air, 

Baptiste  stands  sighing,  with  silent  tongue  ? 
And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 

Is  it  Saint  Joseph  would  say  to  us  all. 

That  love,  o’er-hasty,  precedeth  a fall  ? 

O,  no ! for  a maiden  frail,  I trow. 

Never  bore  so  lofty  a brow  ! 

What  lovers ! they  give  not  a single  caress ! 

To  see  them  so  careless  and  cold  to-day. 

These  are  grand  people,  one  would  say. 

What  ails  Baptiste  ? what  grief  doth  him  oppress  r 

It  is,  that,  half  way  up  the  hill. 

In  yon  cottage,  by  whose  walls 
Stand  the  cart-house  and  the  stalls, 

Dwelleth  the  blind  orphan  still. 

Daughter  of  a veteran  old  ; 

And  you  must  know,  one  year  ago. 

That  Margaret,  the  young  and  tender. 

Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 

And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold. 

Love,  the  deceiver,  them  ensnared ; 

For  them  the  altar  was  prepared ; 

But  alas ! the  summer’s  blight. 

The  dread  disease  that  none  can  stay. 

The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night. 

Took  the  young  bride’s  sight  away. 

All  at  the  father’s  stern  command  was  changed  ; 
Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged- 


848 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled ; 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago, 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 
To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 
Is  thinking  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a maiden  cried, 

“ Anna,  Theresa,  Mary,  Kate  ! 

Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  ! And  by  a fountain’s 
side 

A woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years. 

Under  the  mulberry-trees  appears. 

And  all  towards  her  run,  as  fleet 
As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane,  the  cripple  Jane, 

Is  a soothsayer,  wary  and  kind. 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 

She  promises  one  a village  swain. 

Another  a happy  wedding-day. 

And  the  bride  a lovely  boy  straightway. 

All  comes  to  pass  as  she  avers ; 

She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once  the  village  seer 
Wears  a countenance  severe, 

And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white 
Her  two  eyes  flash  like  cannons  bright 
Aimed  at  the  bridegroom  in  waistcoat  blue, 
Who,  like  a statue,  stands  in  view ; 

Changing  color,  as  well  he  might. 

When  the  beldame  wrinkled  and  gray 
Takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand. 

And,  with  the  tip  of  her  reedy  wand 
Making  the  sign  of  the  cross,  doth  say : — 

“ Thoughtless  Angela,  beware ! 

Lest  when  thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom, 
Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a tomb  ! ” 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTfeL-CUILLE.  349 

And  she  was  silent;  and  the  maidens  fair 
Saw  from  each  eye  escape  a swollen  tear ; 

But  on  a little  streamlet  silver-clear, 

What  are  two  drops  of  turbid  rain  ? 

Saddened  a moment,  the  bridal  train 
Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again  ; 

The  bridegroom  only  was  pale  with  fear; — 

And  down  green  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys. 

With  merry  sallies. 

They  sang  the  refrain  : — 

“ The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay. 

So  fair  a bride  shall  pass  to-day  ! ’’ 


II. 

And  by  suffering  worn  and  weary, 

But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet, 

Thus  lamented  Margaret, 

In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary  : — 

“ He  has  arrived ! arrived  at  last ! 

Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past 
Arrived  ! yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 

And  knows  that  of  my  night  he  is  the  star ! 

Knows  that  long  months  I wait  alone,  benighted, 
And  count  the  moments  since  he  went  away  ! 
Come  ! keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day, 
That  I may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I plighted  ! 
What  joy  have  I without  thee  ? what  delight  ? 
Grief  wastes  my  life,  and  makes  it  misery  ; 

Day  for  the  others  ever,  but  for  me 
Forever  night ! forever  night ! 

When  he  is  gone ’t  is  dark ! my  soul  is  sad  ! 

I suffer  ! O my  God  ! come,  make  me  glad. 


350 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


When  he  is  near,  no  thoughts  of  day  intrude  ; 

Day  has  blue  heavens,  but  Baptiste  has  blue 
eyes ! 

Within  them  shines  for  me  a heaven  of  love, 

A heaven  all  happiness,  like  that  above. 

No  more  of  grief!  no  more  of  lassitude  ! 

Earth  I forget, — and  heaven,  and  all  distresses, 
When  seated  by  my  side  my  hand  he  presses ; 

But  when  alone,  remember  all  1 
Where  is  Baptiste  ? he  hears  not  when  I call ! 

A branch  of  ivy,  dying  on  the  ground, 

I need  some  bough  to  twine  around  ! 

In  pity  come  1 be  to  my  suffering  kind ! 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  1 
What  then — when  one  is  blind  ? 

“ Who  knows  ? perhaps  I am  forsaken  ! 

Ah ! woe  is  me  ! then  bear  me  to  my  grave  ! 

0 God  1 what  thoughts  within  me  waken  ! 
Away  1 he  will  return  I 1 do  but  rave ! 

He  will  return  ! I need  not  fear ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear ; 

He  could  not  come  at  his  own  will ; 

Is  weary,  or  perhaps  is  ill! 

Perhaps  his  heart,  in  this  disguise, 

Prepares  for  me  some  sweet  surprise  ! 

But  some  one  comes ! Though  blind,  my  heart 
can  see  ! 

And  that  deceives  me  not ! ’t  is  he  ! is  he  ! 

And  the  door  ajar  is  set. 

And  poor,  confiding  Margaret 
Rises,  with  outstretched  arms,  but  sightless  eyes; 

'T  is  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries : — 

“ Angela  the  bride  has  passed  ! 

1 saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by ; 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked  ? 

For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I ! ” 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-C UILLE.  351 

Angela  married  ! and  not  send 
To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  ! 

O,  speak  ! who  may  the  bridegroom  be  ? ” 

“ My  sister,  ’t  is  Baptiste,  thy  friend  ! ” 

A cry  the  blind  girl  gave,  but  nothing  said ; 

A milky  whiteness  spreads  upon  her  cheeks  ; 

An  icy  hand,  as  heavy  as  lead. 

Descending,  as  her  brother  speaks. 

Upon  her  heart,  that  has  ceased  to  beat, 
Suspends  awhile  its  life  and  heat. 

She  stands  beside  the  boy,  now  sore  distressed, 

A wax  Madonna  as  a peasant  dressed. 

At  length,  the  bridal  song  again 
Brings  her  back  to  her  sorrow  and  pain. 

‘‘  Hark  ! the  joyous  airs  are  ringing  ! 

Sister,  dost  thou  hear  them  singing  ? 

How  merrily  they  laugh  and  jest ! 

Would  we  were  bidden  with  the  rest ! 

I would  don  my  hose  of  homespun  gray. 

And  my  doublet  of  linen  striped  and  gay  ; 
Perhaps  they  will  come ; for  they  do  not  wed 
Till  to-morrow  at  seven  o’clock,  it  is  said  ! ” 

“ I know  it ! ” answered  Margaret ; 

Whom  the  vision,  with  aspect  black  as  jet. 
Mastered  again  ; and  its  hand  of  ice 
Held  her  heart  crushed,  as  in  a vice  ! 

‘‘  Paul,  be  not  sad  ! ’T  is  a holiday  ; 
To-nlorrow  put  on  thy  doublet  gay  ! 

But  leave  me  now  for  a while  alone.” 

Away,  with  a hop  and  a jump,  went  Paul, 
And,  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall. 

Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

Holy  Virgin  ! what  dreadful  heat ! 

I am  faint,  and  weary,  and  out  of  breath  ! 


352 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


But  thou  art  cold, — art  chill  as  death  ; 

My  little  friend  ! what  ails  thee,  sweet  ? ” 

“ Nothing  ! I heard  them  singing  home  the  bride  ; 
And,  as  I listened  to  the  song, 

I thought  my  turn  would  come  ere  long. 

Thou  knowest  it  is  at  Whitsuntide. 

Thy  cards  forsooth  can  never  lie. 

To  me  such  joy  they  prophesy. 

Thy  skill  shall  be  vaunted  far  and  wide 
When  they  behold  him  at  my  side. 

And  poor  Baptiste,  what  sayest  thou  ? 

It  must  seem  long  to  him; — methinks  I see  him 
now  ! ” 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press  : 

“ Thy  love  I cannot  all  approve ; 

We  must  not  trust  too  much  to  happiness  ; — 

Go,  pray  to  God,  that  thou  mayst  love  him  less  ! ” 

“ The  more  I pray,  the  more  I love  ! 

It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side  ! ” 

It  was  enough ; and  Jane  no  more  replied. 

Now  to  all  hope  her  heart  is  barred  and  cold  ; 

But  to  deceive  the  beldame  old 
She  takes  a sweet,  contented  air ; 

Speak  of  foul  weather  or  of  fair. 

At  every  word  the  maiden  smiles  ! 

' Thus  the  beguiler  she  beguiles  ; 

So  that,  departing  at  the  evening’s  close. 

She  says,  “ She  may  be  saved  1 she  nothing 
knows ! ” 

Poor  Jane,  the  cunning  sorceress  ! 

Now  that  thou  wouldst,  thou  art  no  prophetess  ! 
This  morning,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  heart. 

Thou  wast  so,  far  beyond  thine  art ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.  353 


III. 

Now  rings  the  bell,  nine  times  reverberating, 

And  the  white  daybreak,  stealing  up  the  sky, 

Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens  waiting. 

How  differently ! 

Queen  of  a day,  by  flatterers  caressed. 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown. 

Decks  with  a huge  bouquet  her  breast, 

And  flaunting,  fluttering  up  and  down, 

Looks  at  herself,  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room. 

Has  neither  crown  nor  flower^s  perfume  ; 

But  in  their  stead  for  something  gropes  apart. 
That  in  a drawer’s  recess  doth  lie. 

And,  ’neath  her  boddice  of  bnght  scarlet  dye, 
Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

The  one,  fantastic,  light  as  air, 

’Mid  kisses  ringing. 

And  joyous  singing. 

Forgets  to  say  her  morning  prayer  ! 

The  other,  with  cold  drops  upon  her  brow. 

Joins  her  two  hands,  and  kneels  upon  the  floor. 
And  whispers,  as  her  brother  opes  the  door, 

“ O God ! forgive  me  now  I ” 

And  then  the  orphan,  young  and  blind. 
Conducted  by  her  brother’s  hand. 

Towards  the  church,  through  paths  unscanned, 
With  tranquil  air,  her  way  doth  wind. 

Odors  of  laurel,  making  her  faint  and  pale. 

Round  her  at  times  exhale, 

And  in  the  sky  as  yet  no  sunny  ray, 

But  brumal  vapors  gray. 

VOL.  I.  23 


354 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


Near  that  castle,  fair  to  see, 

Crowded  with  sculptures  old,  in  every  part. 
Marvels  of  nature  and  of  art, 

And  proud  of  its  name  of  high  degree, 

A little  chapel,  almost  bare 

At  the  base  of  the  rock,  is  builded  there ; 

All  glorious  that  it  lifts  aloof. 

Above  each  jealous  cottage  roof. 

Its  sacred  summit,  swept  by  autumn  gales, 

And  its  blackened  steeple  high  in  air, 

Round  which  the  osprey  screams  and  sails. 

“ Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by ! 

Thus  Margaret  said.  “ Where  are  we  ? we  as- 
cend!” 

‘‘  Yes ; seest  thou  not  our  journey’s  end  ? 
Hearest  not  the  osprey  from  the  belfry  .cry  ? 

The  hideous  bird,  that  brings  ill  luck,  we  know  ! 
Dost  thou  remember  when  our  father  said, 

The  night  we  watched  beside  his  bed, 

‘ O daughter,  I am  weak  and  low ; 

Take  care  of  Paul ; I feel  that  I am  dying ! ’ 

And  thou,  and  he,  and  I,  all  fell  to  crying  ? 

Then  on  the  roof  the  osprey  screamed  aloud  ; 

And  here  they  brought  our  father  in  his  shroud. 
There  is  his  grave;  there  stands  the  cross  we  set; 
Why  dost  thou  clasp  me  so,  dear  Margaret  ? 

Come  in  ! The  bride  will  be  here  soon  : 

Thou  tremblest  I O my  God ! thou  art  going  to 
swoon ! ” 

She  could  no  more, — the  blind  girl,  weak  and 
weary ! 

A voice  seemed  crying  from  that  grave  so  drearyi 
“ What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  daughter  ? ” — and  she 
started ; 

And  quick  recoiled,  aghast,  faint-hearted ; 

But  Paul,  impatient,  urges  ever  more 
Her  steps  towards  the  open  door ; 

And  when,  beneath  her  feet,  the  unhappy  maid 
Crushes  the  laurel  near  the  house  immortal, 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE.  35.5 

And  with  her  head,  as  Paul  talks  on  again, 

Touches  the  crown  of  filigrane 
Suspended  from  the  low-arched  portal. 

No  more  restrained,  no  more  afraid. 

She  walks,  as  for  a feast  arrayed, 

And  in  the  ancient  chapel’s  sombre  night 
They  both  are  lost  to  sight. 

At  length  the  bell, 

With  booming  sound. 

Sends  forth,  resounding  round. 

Its  hymeneal  peal  o’er  rock  and  down  the  dell. 

It  is  broad  day,  with  sunshine  and  with  rain  ; 
And  yet  the  guests  delay  not  long, 

For  soon  arrives  the  bridal  train. 

And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay,* 

For  lo ! Baptiste  on  this  triumphant  da}'. 

Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning, 

Thinks  only  of  the  beldame’s  words  of  warning. 

And  Angela  thinks  of  her  crDss,  I wis  ; 

To  be  a bride  is  all ! The  pretty  lisper 

Feels  her  heart  swell  to  hear  all  round  her  whisper 

“ How  beautiful ! how  beautiful  she  is  ! ” 

But  she  must  calm  that  giddy  head, 

F or  already  the  Mass  is  said  ; 

At  the  holy  table  stands  the  priest ; 

The  wedding  ring  is  blessed ; Baptiste  receives  it ; 
Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it, 

He  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 

’T  is  spoken  ; and  sudden  at  the  groomsman’s  side 
“ ’T  is  he  a well-known  voice  has  cried. 

And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 
Opes  the  confessional,  and  the  blind  girl,  see ! 
Baptiste,”  she  said,  “ since  thou  hast  wished  my 
death. 


356  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  ! ” 

And  calmly  in  the  air  a knife  suspended ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 

For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well, 

That,  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 

Lifeless  she  fell ! 

At  eve,  instead  of  bridal  verse. 

The  De  Profundis  filled  the  air ; 

Decked  with  flowers  a simple  hearse 
To  the  churchyard  forth  they  bear ; 

Village  girls  in  robes  of  snow 
Follow,  weeping  as  they  go  ; 

Nowhere  was  a smile  that  day, 

No,  ah  no  ! for  each  one  seemed  to  say : — 

“ The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 
So  fair  a corpse  shall  leave  its  home  ! 

Should  mourn  and  should  weep,  ah,  well-away ! 

So  fair  a corpse  shall  pass  to-day ! ” . 


A CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FROM  THE  NOEI  BOURGUIGNON  DE  GUI  BAROZAI. 

I HEAR  along  our  street 
Pass  the  minstrel  throngs ; 

Hark ! they  play  so  sweet, 

On  their  hautboys,  Christmas  songs  ! 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

In  December  ring 
Every  day  the-  chimes ; 

Loud  the  gleemen  sing 


A CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


857 


In  the  streets  their  merry  rhymes. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Shepherds  at  the  grange, 
Where  the  Babe  was  born, 
Sang,  with  many  a change, 
Christmas  carols  until  morn. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

These  good  people  sang 
Songs  devout  and  sweet  ; 

While  the  rafters  rang. 

There  they  stood  with  freezing  feet. 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Nuns  in  frigid  cells 
At  this  holy  tide. 

For  want  of  something  else, 
Christmas  songs  at  times  have  tried 
Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire  ! 

Washerwomen  old. 

To  the  sound  they  beat, 

Sing  by  rivers  cold. 

With  uncovered  heads  and  feet. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire. 

Who  by  the  fireside  stands 
Stamps  his  feet  and  sings ; 


358 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


But  lie  who  blows  his  hands 
Not  so  gay  a carol  brings. 

Let  us  by  the  fire 
Ever  higher 

Sing  them  till  the  night  expire ! 


NOTES. 


NOTES. 


Page  155.  J.s  Lope  says, 

“ La  c61ora 

de  un  Espanol  sentado  no  se  templa, 

Bino  le  represen  tan  en  dos  boras 
basta  el  final  juicio  desde  el  Genesis.” 

Lope  de  Vega. 

Page  158.  Abernuncio  Satanas. 

“ Digo,  Senora,  respondio  Sancho,  lo  que  tengo  dicho. 
que  de  los  azotes  abernuncio.  Abrenuncio,  habeis  de 
decir,  Sancho,  y no  como  decis,  dijo  el  Duque.” — Bon 
Quixote,  Part  II.  ch.  35. 

Page  168.  Fray  Carrillo. 

The  allusion  here  is  to  a Spanish  Epigram. 

“Siempre  Fray  Carrillo  estas 
cansindonos  acd  fuera ; 
quien  en  tu  celda  estuviera 
para  no  verte  jamas ! ” 

Bohl  de  Faber.  Floresta,^  No.  611. 

Page  168.  Padre  Francisco. 

This  is  from  an  Italian  popular  song. 

“ ‘ Padre  Francesco, 

Padre  Francesco ! ’ 

— Cosa  volete  del  Padre  Francesco — 

‘ V’  e una  bella  ragazzina 
Che  si  vuole  confessar ! ’ 

Fatte  V entrare,  fatte  1’  entrare! 

Cbe  la  voglio  confessare.” 

Kopisch.  Volkstkumliche  Poesien  aus  alien  Mund- 
arten  Italiens  und  seiner  Inseln,  p.  194. 

Page  170.  Ave  ! cujus  calcem  dare. 

From  a monkish  hymn  of  the  twelfth  century,  in  Sir 
Alexander  Croke’s  Essay  on  the  Origin,  Progress,  and 
Decline  of  Rhyming  Latin  Verse,  p.  109. 

Page  177.  The  gold  of  the  Busne. 

Busn4  is  the  name  given  by  the  Gipsies  to  all  who  are 
not  of  their  race. 


(361) 


362 


NOTES. 


Page  177.  Ckmnt  of  the  CaUs. 

The  Gipsies  call  themselves  Cal^s.  See  Borrow’s  val- 
uable and  extremely  interesting  work,  The  Zincali;  or  an 
Account  of  the  Gipsies  in  Spain.  London,  1841. 

Page  180.  Asks  if  his  money-bags  would  rise. 

“ j Y volvi^ndome  a un  lado,  vl  a un  Avariento,  que 
estaba  preguntando  a otro,  (que  por  haber  sido  embalsa- 
mado,  y estar  14xos  sus  tripas  no  hablaba,  porque  no 
habian  llegado  si  habian  de  resucitar  aquel  dia  todos  los 
enterrados)  si  resucitarian  unos  bolsones  suyos?” — El 
Sueno  de  las  Calaveras. 

Page  181.  And  amen!  said  my  Cid  Campeador. 

A line  from  the  ancient  Poema  del  Cid. 

“Amen,  dixo  Mio  Cid  el  Campeador.” 

Line  3044. 

Page  182.  The  river  of  his  thoughts. 

This  expression  is  from  Dante; 

“ Si  che  chiaro 

Per  essa  scenda  della  mente  il  flume.” 

Byron  has  likewise  used  the  expression ; though  I do 
not  recollect  in  which  of  his  poems. 

Page  182.  Mari  Franca. 

A common  Spanish  proverb,  used  to  turn  aside  a ques- 
tion one  does  not  wish  to  answer  ; 

“ Porque  caso  Mari  Franca 
quatro  leguas  de  Salamanca.” 

Page  183.  Ay,  soft,  emerald  eyes. 

The  Spaniards,  with  good  reason,  consider  this  color  of 
the  eye  as  beautiful,  and  celebrate  it  in  song;  as,  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  well-known  Villancico; 

“Ay  ojuelos  verdes, 
ay  los  mis  ojuelos, 
ay  hagan  los  cielos 
que  de  mi  te  acuerdes ! 

Tengo  confianza 
de  mis  verdes  ojos.” 

Bohl  de  Faber.  Floresta,  No.  265. 

Dante  speaks  of  Beatrice’s  eyes  as  emeralds.  Purga- 
torio,  xxxi.  116.  Lami  says,  in  his  Annotazioni,  “ Erano  i 
Buoi  occhi  d’  un  turchino  verdiccio,  simile  a quel  del 
mare.” 

Page  184.  The  Avenging  Child. 

See  the  ancient  Ballads  of  El  Infante  Vengador^  and 
Calaynos. 

Page  185.  All  are  sleeping. 

From  the  Spanish.  BdhV's  Fhresta,  No.  282. 


NOTES. 


363 


Page  197.  Good  night. 

From  the  Spanish  ; as  are  likewise  the  songs  imme- 
diately following,  and  that  which  commences  the  first 
scene  of  Act  III. 

Page  211.  The  evil  eye. 

“ In  the  Gitano  language,  casting  the  evil  eye  is  called 
Querelar  nasula,  which  simply  means  making  sick,  and 
which,  according  to  the  common  superstition,  is  accom- 
plished by  casting  an  evil  look  at  people,  especially  chil- 
dren, who,  from  the  tenderness  of  their  constitution,  are 
supposed  to  be  more  easily  blighted  than  those  of  a more 
mature  age.  After  receiving  the  evil  glance,  they  fall 
sick,  and  die  in  a few  hours. 

“ The  Spaniards  have  very  little  to  say  respecting  the 
evil  eye,  though  the  belief  in  it  is  very  prevalent,  espe- 
cially in  Andalusia,  amongst  the  lower  orders.  A stag’s 
horn  is  considered  a good  safeguard,  and' on  that  account 
a small  horn,  tipped  with  silver,  is  frequently  attached  to 
the  children’s  necks  by  means  of  a cord  braided  from  the 
hair  of  a black  mare’s  tail.  Should  the  evil  glance  be 
cast,  it  is  imagined  that  the  horn  receives  it,  and  instantly 
snaps  asunder.  Such  horns  may  be  purchased  in  some 
of  the  silversmiths’  shops  at  Seville.” 

Borrow’ s Zincali.  Vol.  I.  ch.  ix. 

Page  211.  On  the  top  of  a mmmtain  1 stand. 

This  and  the  following  scraps  of  song  are  from  Borrow’s 
Zincali ; or  an  Account  of  the  Gipsies  in  Spain. 

The  Gipsy  words  in  the  same  scene  may  be  thus  inter- 
preted: 

John-Dorados^  pieces  of  gold. 

Pigeon^  a simpleton. 

In  your  morocco,  stripped. 

Doves,  sheets. 

Moon,  a shirt. 

Chirelin,  a thief. 

Murciaalleros,  those  who  steal  at  night-fall. 

Rastilleros,  foot-pads. 

Hermit,  highway-robber. 

Planets,  candles. 

Commandments,  the  fingers. 

Saint  Martin  asleep,  to  rob  a person  asleep. 

Lanterns,  eyes. 

Goblin,  police  officer. 

Papagayo,  a spy. 

Vineyards  and  Dancing  John,  to  take  flight. 

Page  220.  If  thou  art  sleeping,  maiden. 

From  the  Spanish;  as  is  likewise  the  song  of  the  Ccn- 
trabandista,  on  page  169. 


364 


NOTES. 


Page  234.  All  the  Foresters  of  Flanders. 

The  title  of  Foresters  was  given  to  the  early  governors 
of  Flanders,  appointed  by  the  kings  of  France.  Lyderick 
du  Bucq,  in  the  days  of  Clotaire  the  Second,  was  the  first 
of  .them;  and  Beaudoin  Bras-de-Fer,  who  stole  away  the 
fair  Judith,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bald,  from  the  French 
court,  and  married  her  in  Bruges,  was  the  last.  After 
him,  the  title  of  Forester  was  changed  to  that  of  Count. 
Philippe  d’ Alsace,  Guy  de  Dampierre,  and  Louis  de 
Cr^cy,  coming  later  in  the  order  of  time,  were  therefore 
rather  Counts  than  Foresters.  Philippe  went  twice  to  the 
Holy  Land  as  a Crusader,  and  died  of  the  plague  at  St. 
Jean-d’Acre,  shortly  after  the  capture  of  the  city  by  the 
Christians.  Guy  de  Dampierre  died  in  the  prison  of 
Compi^gne.  Louis  de  Cr^cy  was  son  and  successor  of 
Robert  de  B4thune,  who  strangled  his  wife,  Yolande  de 
Bourgogne,  with  the  bridle  of  his  horse,  for  having  poi- 
soned, at  the  age  of  eleven  years,  Charles,  his  son  by  his 
first  wife,  Blanche  d’ Anjou. 

Page  234.  Stately  damts^  like  queens  attended. 

When  Philippe-le-Bel,  king  of  France,  visited  Flanders 
with  his  queen,  she  was  so  astonished  at  the  magnificence 
of  the  dames  of  Bruges,  that  she  exclaimed, — “ Je  croyais 
dtre  seule  reihe  ici,  mais  il  parait  que  ceux  de  Flandre 
qui  se  trouvent  dans  nos  prisons  sont  tons  des  princes, 
car  leurs  femmes  sont  habill^es  comme  des  princesses  et 
des  reines.” 

When  the  burgomasters  of  Ghent,  Bruges,  and  Ypres 
went  to  Paris  to  pay  homage  to  King  John,  in  1351,  they 
were  received  with  great  pomp  and  distinction;  but,  being 
invited  to  a festival,  they  observed  that  their  seats  at  table 
were  not  furnished  with  cushions ; whereupon,  to  make 
known  their  displeasure  at  this  want  of  regard  to  their 
dignity,  they  folded  their  richly  embroidered  cloaks  and 
seated  themselves  upon  them.  On  rising  from' table, 
they  left  their  cloaks  behind  them,  and,  being  informed 
of  their  apparent  forgetfulness,  Simon  van  Eertrycko, 
burgomaster  of  Bruges,  replied, — “ We  Flemings  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  carrying  away  our  cushions  after  dinner.  ” 

Page  234.  Knights  who  bore  the  Fleece  of  Gold. 

Philippe  de  Bourgogne,  surnamed  Le  Bon,  espoused 
Isabella  of  Portugal,  on  the  10th  of  January,  1430 ; and 
on  the  same  day  instituted  the  famous  order  of  the  Fleece 
of  Gold. 

Page  234.  I beheld  the  gentle  Mary. 

Marie  de  Valois,  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  was  left  by 
the  death  of  her  father,  Charles-le-T^m^raire,  at  the  age 
of  twenty,  the  richest  heiress  of  Europe.  She  came  to 


NOTES. 


365 


Bruges,  as  Countess  of  Flanders,  in  1477,  and  in  the  same 
year  was  married  by  proxy  to  the  Archduke  Maximilian. 
According  to  the  custom  of  the  time,  the  Duke  of  Ba- 
varia, Maximilian’s  substitute,  slept  with  the  princess. 
They  were  both  in  complete  dress,  separated  by  a naked 
sword,  and  attended  by  four  armed  guards.  ^larie  was 
adored  by  her  subjects  for  her  gentleness  and  her  many 
other  virtues. 

Maximilian  was  .son  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  the 
Third,  and  is  the  same  person  mentioned  afterwards  in 
the  poem  of  Nuremberg  as  the  Kaiser  Maximilian,  and 
the  hero  of  Pfinzing’s  poem  of  Teuerdank.  Having  been 
imprisoned  by  the  revolted  burghers  of  Bruges,  they  re- 
fused to  release  him,  till  he  consented  to  kneel  in  the 
public  square,  and  to  swear  on  the  Holy  Evangelists  and 
the  body  of  Saint  Donatus,  that  he  would  not  take  ven- 
geance upon  them  for  their  rebellion. 

Page  235.  The  bloody  battle  of  the  Spurs  of  Gold. 

This  battle,  the  most  memorable  in  Flemish  history, 
was  fought  under  the  walls  of  Courtray,  on  the  11th  of 
July,  1302,  between  the  French  and  the  Flemings,  the 
former  commanded  by  Kobert,  Comte  d’ Artois,  and  the 
latter  by  Guillaume  de  Juliers,  and  Jean,  Comte  de  Na- 
mur. The  French  army  was  completely  routed,  with  a 
loss  of  twenty  thousand  infantry  and  seven  thousand 
cavalry among  whom  were  sixty-three  princes,  dukes, 
and  counts,  seven  hundred  lords-banneret,  and  eleven 
hundred  noblemen.  The  flower  of  the  French  nobility 
perished  on  that  day,  to  which  history  has  given  the  name 
of  the  Journee  des  Eperons  d'  Or,  Ifom  the  great  number 
of  golden  spurs  found  on  the  field  of  battle.  Seven  hun- 
dred of  them  were  hung  up  as  a trophy  in  the  church  of 
Notre  Dame  de  Courtray;  and,  as  the  cavaliers  of  that 
day  wore  but  a single  spur  each,  these  vouched  to  God 
for  the  violent  and  Woody  death  of  seven  hundred  of  his 
creatures. 

Page  235.  Saw  the  fight  at  Minnewater. 

When  the  inhabitants  of  Bruges  were  digging  a canal 
at  Jilinnewater,  to  bring  the  waters  of  the  Lys  from 
Deynze  to  their  city,  they  were  attacked  and  routed  by 
the  citizens  of  Ghent,  whose  commerce  would  have  been 
much  injured  by  the  canal.  They  were  led  by  dean 
Lyons,  captain  of  a military  company  at  Ghent,  called 
the  Chaperons  Blancs.  He  had  great  sway  over  the  tur- 
bulent populace,  who,  in  those  prosperous  times  of  the 
city,  gamed  an  easy  livelihood  by  laboring  two  or  three 
days  in  the  week,  and  had  the  remaining  four  or  five 
to  devote  to  public  affairs.  The  fight  at  Minnewater 


NOTES. 


36() 

was  followed  by  open  rebellion  against  Louis  de  Maele, 
the  Count  of  "Flanders  and  Protector  of  Bruges.  His 
superb  chateau  of  Wondelghem  was  pillaged  and  burnt; 
and  the  insurgents  forced  the  gates  of  Bruges,  and 
entered  in  triumph,  with  Lyons  mounted  at  their  head. 
A few  days  afterwards  he  died  suddenly,  perhaps  by 
poison. 

Meanwhile  the  insurgents  received  a check  at  the  vil- 
lage of  Nev^le;  and  two  hundred  of  them  perished  in 
the  church,  which  was  burned  by  the  Count’s  orders. 
One  of  the  chiefs,  Jean  de  Lannoy,  took  refuge  in  the 
belfry.  From  the  summit  of  the  tower,  he  held  forth  his 
purse  filled  with  gold,  and  begged  for  deliverance.  It  was 
in  vain.  His  enemies  cried  to  him  from  below  to  save 
himself  as  best  he  might;  and, half  suffocated  with  smoke 
and  flame,  he  threw  himself  from  the  tower  and  perished 
at  their  feet.  Peace  was  soon  afterwards  established,  and 
the  Count  retired  to  faithful  Bruges. 

Page  235.  The  Golden  Dragon's  nest. 

The  Golden  Dragon,  taken  from  the  church  of  St.  So- 
phia, at  Constantinople,  in  one  of  the  Crusades,  and 
placed  on  the  belfry  of  Bruges,  was  afterwards  transported 
to  Ghent  by  Philip  van  Artevelde,  and  still  adorns  the 
belfry  of  that  city. 

The  inscription  on  the  alarm-bell  at  Ghent  is,  “ Mynen 
naem  is  Roland ; als  ik  Hep  is  er  brand  and  als  ik  luy  is  er 
victorie  in  het  land."  My  name  is  Roland;  when  I toll 
there  is  fire,  and  when  I ring  there  is  victory  in  the  land. 

Page  243.  That  their  great  imperial  city  stretched  its 
hand  through  every  clime. 

An  old  popular  proverb  of  the  town  runs  thus : — 

“ Nnrnberg''s  Hand 
Geht  durch  alle  Land." 

Nuremberg’s  hand 
Goes  through  every  land. 

Page  243.  Sat  the  poet  Melchior  singing  Kaiser  Maxi- 
milian's praise. 

Melchior  Pfinzing  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  Ger- 
man poets  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The  hero  of  his 
Teuerdank  was  the  reigning  emperor,  Maximilian ; and  the 
poem  was  to  the  Germans  of  that  day  what  the  Orlando 
Furioso  was  to  the  Italians.  Maximilian  is  mentioned 
before,  in  the  Belfry  of  Bruges.  See  page  365. 

Page  244.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Sebald  sleeps  en- 
shrined his  holy  dust. 

The  tomb  of  Saint  Sebald,  in  the  church  which  bears 
his  name,  is  one  of  the  richest  works  of  art  in  Nuremberg. 


NOTES. 


367 


It  is  of  bronze,  and  was  cast  by  Peter  Visclier  and  his 
sons,  who  labored  upon  it  thirteen  years.  It  is  adorned 
with  nearly  one  hundred  figures,  among  which  those  of 
the  Twelve  Apostles  are  conspicuous  for  size  and  beauty. 

Page  244.  In  the  church  of  sainted  Lawrence  stands  a 
pix  of  sculpture  rare. 

This  pix,  or  tabernacle  for  the  vessels  of  the  sacrament, 
is  by  the  hand  of  Adam  Kraft.  It  is  an  exquisite  piece 
of  sculpture  in  white  stone,  and  rises  to  the  height  of 
sixty-four  feet.  It  stands  in  the  choir,  whose  richly 
painted  windows  cover  it  with  varied  colors. 

Page  245.  Wisest  of  the  Twelve  Wise  Masters. 

The  Twelve  Wise  Masters  was  the  title  of  the  original 
corporation  of  the  Mastersingers.  Hans  Sachs,  the  cob- 
bler of  Nuremberg,  though  notone  of  the  original  Twelve, 
was  the  most  renowned  of  the  Mastersingers,  as  well  as 
the  most  voluminous.  He  flourished  in  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury; and  left  behind  him  thirty-four  folio  volumes  of 
manuscript,  containing  two  hundred  and  eight  plays,  one 
thousand  and  seven  hundred  comic  tales,  and  between 
four  and  five  thousand  lyric  poems. 

Page  245.  As  in  Adam  Fuschman^s  song. 

Adam  Puschman,  in  his  poem  on  the  death  of  Hans 
Sachs,  describes  him  as  he  appeared  in  a vision : — 

“An  old  man. 

Gray  and  white,  and  dove-like. 

Who  had,  in  sooth,  a great  beard, 

And  read  in  a fair,  great  book. 

Beautiful  with  golden  clasps.” 

Page  256.  The  Occultation  of  Orion. 

Astronomically  speaking,  this  title  is  incorrect;  as  I 
apply  to  a constellation  what  can  properly  be  applied  to 
some  of  its  stars  only.  But  my  observation  is  made  from 
the  hill  of  song,  and  not  from  that  of  science;  and  will,  I 
trust,  be  found  sufficient!}^  accurate  for  the  present  pur- 
pose. 

Page  271.  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide. 

Walter  von  der  Vogelweide,  or  Bird-Meadow,  was  one 
of  the  principal  Minnesingers  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
He  triumphed  over  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  in  that 
poetic  contest  at  Wartburg  Castle,  known  in  literary  his- 
tory as  the  War  of  Wartburg. 

Page  281.  Like  imperial  Charlemagne. 

Charlemagne  may  be  called  by  preeminence  the  mon- 
arch of  farmers.  According  to  "the  German  tradition,  in 
seasons  of  great  abundance,  his  spirit  crosses  the  Rhine 
on  a golden  bridge  at  Bingen,  and  blesses  the  cornfields 


368 


NOTES. 


and  the  vineyards.  During  his  lifetime,  he  did  not  dis- 
dain, says  Montesquieu,  “to  sell  the  eggs  from  the  farm- 
yards of  his  domains,  and  the  superfluous  vegetables  of 
his  gardens ; while  he  distributed  among  his  people  the 
wealth  of  the  Lombards  and  the  immense  treasures  of 
the  Huns.” 

Page  309.  Behold^  at  last, 

Each  tall  and  tapering  mast, 

Is  sming  into  its  place. 

I wish  to  anticipate  a criticism  on  this  passage,  by 
stating  that  sometimes,  though  not  usually,  vessels  are 
launched  fully  rigged  and  sparred.  I have  availed  my- 
self of  the  exception,  as  better  suited  to  my  purposes 
than  the  general  rule;  but  the  reader  will  see  that  it  is 
neither  a blunder  nor  a poetic  license.  On  this  subject 
a friend  in  Portland,  Maine,  writes  me  thus: — 

“ In  this  State,  and  also,  I am  told,  in  New  York,  ships 
are  sometimes  rigged  upon  the  stocks,  in  order  to  save 
time,  or  to  make  a show.  There  was  a fine,  large  ship 
launched  last  summer  at  Ellsworth,  fully  rigged  and 
sparred.  Some  years  ago  a ship  was  launched  here,  with 
her  rigging,  spars,  sails,  and  cargo  aboard.  She  sailed 
the  next  day  and — was  never  heard  of  again ! I hope 
this  will  not  be  the  fate  of  your  poem ! ” 

Page  317.  Sir  Humphrey  Gilbert. 

“ When  the  wind  abated  and  the  vessels  were  near 
enough,  the  Admiral  was  seen  constantly  sitting  in  the 
stern,  with  a book  in  his  hand.  On  the  9th  of  September 
he  was  seen  for  the  last  time,  and  was  heard  by  the  people 
of  the  Hind  to  say,  ‘ We  are  as  near  heaven  by  sea  as  by 
land.’  In  the  following  night,  the  lights  of  the  ship  sud- 
denly disappeared.  The  people  in  the  other  vessel  kept 
a good  lookout  for  him  during  the  remainder  of  the  voy- 
age. On  the  22d  of  September  they  arrived,  through 
much  tempest  and  peril,  at  Falmouth.  But  nothing  more 
was  seen  or  heard  of  the  Admiral.” — Belknap’s  Ameri- 
can Biography,  I.  203. 

Page  343.  The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-  Ouille. 

Jasmin,  the  author  of  this  beautiful  poem,  is  to  the 
South  of  France  what  Burns  is  to  the  South  of  Scotland, — 
the  representative  of  the  heart  of  the  people, — one  of 
those  happy  bards  who  are  born-  with  their  mouths  full 
of  birds  {la  bouco  pleno  d'' aouzelous).  He  has  written  his 
own  biography  in  a poetic  form,  and  the  simple  narrative 
of  his  poverty,  his  struggles,  and  his  triumphs,  is  very 
touching.  He  still  lives  at  Agen,  on  the  Garonne;  and 
long  may  he  live  there  to  delight  his  native  land  with 
native  songs ! 


NOTES. 


369 


The  following  description  of  his  person  and  way  of  life 
is  taken  from  the  graphic  pages  of  “ B4arn  and  the  Pyre- 
nees,” by  Louisa  Stuart  Costello,  whose  charming  pen 
has  done  so  much  to  illustrate  the  French  provinces  and 
their  literature. 

“ At  the  entrance  of  the  promenade,  Du  Gravier,  is  a 
row  of  small  houses, — some  cafes^  others  shops,  the  indi- 
cation of  which  is  a painted  cloth  placed  across  the  way, 
with  the  owner’s  name  in  bright  gold  letters,  in  the  man- 
ner of  the  arcades  in  the  streets,  and  their  announcements. 
One  of  the  most  glaring  of  these  was,  we  observed,  a 
bright  blue  flag,  bordered  with  gold;  on  which,  in  large 
gold  letters,  appeared  the  name  of  ‘ Jasmin,  Coiffeur.’ 
We  entered,  and  were  welcomed  by  a smiling,  dark-eyed 
woman,  who  informed  us  that  her  husband  was  busy  at 
that  moment  dressing  a customer’s  hair,  but  he  was  de- 
sirous to  receive  us,  and  begged  we  would  walk  into  his 
parlour  at  the  back  of  the  shop. 

“ She  exhibited  to  us  a laurel  crown  of  gold,  of  delicate 
workmanship,  sent  from  the  city  of  Clemence  Isaure, 
Toulouse,  to  the  poet;  who  will  probably  one  day  take 
his  place  in  the  capitoul.  Next  came  a golden  cup,  with 
an  inscription  in  his  honor,  given  by  the  citizens  of  Auch ; 
a gold  watch,  chain,  and  seals,  sent  by  the  king,  Louis 
Philippe;  an  emerald  ring  worn  and  presented  by  the 
lamented  Duke  of  Orleans:  a pearl  pin,  by  the  graceful 
Duchess,  who,  on  the  poet’s  visit  to  Paris  accompanied 
by  his  son,  received  him  in  the  words  he  puts  into  the 
mouth  of  Henri  Quatre : — 

‘ Brahes  Gaseous ! 

A moun  amou  per  bous  aou  dibes  creyre : 

Benes ! benes  ey  plaze  de  bous  beyre : 

Aproucha  bous ! ’ 

A flne  service  of  linen,  the  offering  of  the  town  of  Pau, 
after  its  citizens  had  given  fetes  in  his  honor,  and  loaded 
him  with  caresses  and  praises;  and  nicknacks  and  jewels 
of  all  descriptions  offered  to  him  by  lady-ambassadresses, 
and  great  lords:  English  ‘misses’  and  ‘miladis;’  and 
French,  and  foreigners  of  all  nations  who  did  or  did  not 
understand  Gascon. 

All  this,  though  startling,  was  not  convincing.  Jas- 
min, the  barber,  might  only  be  a fashion,  a furore^  a ca- 
price, after  all ; and  it  was  evident  that  he  knew  how  to 
get  up  a scene  well.  When  we  had  become  nearly  tired 
of  looking  over  these  tributes  to  his  genius,  the  door 
opened,  and  the  poet  himself  appeared.  His  manner  was 

VOL.  I.  24 


370 


NOTES. 


free  and  unembarrassed,  well-bred,  and  lively ; he  received 
our  compliments  naturally,  and  like  one  accustomed  to 
homage;  said  he  was  ill,  and  unfortunately  too  hoarse  to 
read  any  thing  to  us,  or  should  have  been  delighted  to  do 
so.  He  spoke  with  a broad  Gascon  accent,  and  very 
rapidly  and  eloquently;  ran  over  the  story  of  his  suc- 
cesses ; told  us  that  his  grandfather  had  been  a beggar, 
and  all  his  family  very  poor:  that  he  was  now  as  rich  as 
he  wished  to  be;  his  son  placed  in  a good  position  at 
Nantes ; then  showed  us  his  son’s  picture,  and  spoke  of 
his  disposition,  to  which  his  brisk  little  wife  added,  that, 
though  no  fool,  he  had  not  his  father’s  genius,  to  which 
truth  Jasmin  assented  as  a matter  of  course.  I told  him 
of  having  seen  mention  made  of  him  in  an  English  review; 
which  he  said  had  been  sent  him  by  Lord  Durham,  who 
had  paid  him  a visit ; and  then  I spoke  of  ‘ Me  cal  mouri  ’ 
as  known  to  me.  This  was  enough  to  make  him  forget 
his  hoarseness  and  every  other  evil : it  would  never  do  for 
me  to  imagine  that  that  little  song  was  his  best  com- 
position ; it  was  merely  his  first ; he  must  try  to  read  to 
me  a little  of  ‘ L’ Abuglo  ’ — a few  verses  of  ‘ Franpouneto ; ’ 
— ‘You  will  be  charmed,’  said  he;  ‘but  if  I were  w'ell, 
and  you  would  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for 
some  time,  if  you  were  not  merely  running  through  Agen, 
I would  kill  you  with  weeping, — I would  make  you  die 
with  distress  for  my  poor  Margarido, — my  pretty  Fran- 
90uneto ! ’ 

“ He  caught  up  two  copies  of  his  book,  from  a pile 
lying  on  the  table,  and  making  us  sit  close  to  him,  he 
pointed  out  the  French  translation  on  one  side,  which  he 
told  us  to  follow  while  he  read  in  Gascon.  He  began  in 
a rich,  soft  voice,  and  as  he  advanced,  the  surprise  of 
Hamlet  on  hearing  the  player-king  recite  the  disasters  of 
Hecuba  was  but  a type  of  ours,  to  find  ourselves  carried 
away  by  the  spell  of  his  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  swam 
in  tears ; he  became  pale  and  red ; he  trembled ; he  re- 
covered himself;  his  face  was  now  joyous,  now  exulting, 
gay,  jocose;  in  fact,  he  was  twenty  acWs  in  one;  he  rang 
the  changes  from  Rachel  to  Bouffd ; and  he  finished  by 
delighting  us,  besides  beguiling  us  of  our  tears,  and  over- 
whelming us  with  astonishment. 

“ He  would  have  been  a treasure  on  the  stage ; for  ho 
is  still,  though  his  first  youth  is  past,  remarkably  good- 
looking  and  striking;  with  black,  sparkling  eyes  of  in- 
tense expression;  a fine,  ruddy  complexion;  a counte- 
nance of  wondrous  mobility;  a good  figure;  and  action 
full  of  fire  and  grace;  he  has  handsome  hands,  which  he 
uses  with  infinite  effect;  and,  on  the  whole,  he  is  the  best 


NOTES. 


371 


actor  of  the  kind  I ever  saw.  I could  now  quite  under- 
stand what  a troubadour  or  jongleur  might  be,  and  1 look 
upon  Jasmin  as  a revived  specimen  of  that  extinct  race. 
Such  as  he  is  might  have  been  Gaucelm  Faidit,  of  Avig- 
non, the  friend  of  Coeur  de  Lion,  who  lamented  the  death 
of  the  hero  in  such  moving  strains;  such  might  have  been 
Bernard  de  Ventadour,  who  sang  the  praises  of  Queen 
Elinore’s  beauty;  such  Geoffrey  Rudel,  of  Blaye,  on  his 
own  Garonne ;•  such  the  wild  Vidal:  certain  it  is,  that 
none  of  these  troubadours  of  old  could  more  move,  by 
their  singing  or  reciting,  than  Jasmin,  in  whom  all  their 
long-smothered  fire  and  traditional  magic  seems  reillu- 
mined. 

“ We  found  we  had  stayed  hours  instead  of  minutes 
with  the  poet;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  any  apology, — 
only  regretted  that  his  voice  was  so  out  of  tune,  in  conse- 
quence of  a violent  cold,  under  which  he  was  really 
laboring,  and  hoped  to  see  us  again.  He  told  us  our 
country-women  of  Pau  had  laden  him  with  kindness  and 
attention,  and  spoke  with  such  enthusiasm  of  the  beauty 
of  certain  ‘ misses,’  that  I feared  his  little  wife  would  feel 
somewhat  piqued;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  stood  by, 
smiling  and  happy,  and  enjoying  the  stories  of  his 
triumphs.  I remarked  that  he  had  restored  the  poetry 
of  the  troubadours ; asked  him  if  he  knew  their  songs ; and 
said  he  was  worthy  to  stand  at  their  head.  ‘ I am,  in- 
deed, a troubadour,’  said  he,  with  energy;  ‘ but  I am  far 
beyond  them  all,  they  were  but  beginners ; they  never 
composed  a poem  like  my  Franqouneto!  there  are  no 
poets  in  France  now, — there  cannot  be;  the  language 
does  not  admit  of  it ; where  is  the  fire,  the  spirit,  the  ex- 
pression, the  tenderness,  the  force  of  the  Gascon  V French 
is  but  the  ladder  to  reach  to  the  first  floor  of  Gascon, — 
how  can  you  get  up  to  a height  except  by  a ladder ! ’ 

“I  returned  by  Agen,  after  an  absence  in  the  Pyrenees 
of  some  months,  and  renewed  my  acquaintance  with  Jas- 
min and  his  dark-eyed  wife.  I did  not  expect  that  I 
should  be  recognized;  but  the  moment  1 entered  the  little 
shop  I was  hailed  as  an  old  friend.  ‘ Ah!  ’ cried  Jasmin, 
‘ enfin  la  voila  encore  1 ’ I could  not  but  be  flattered  by 
this  recollection,  but  soon  found  it  was  less  on  my  own 
account  that  I was  thus  welcomed,  than  because  "a  cir- 
cumstance had  occurred  to  the  poet  which  he  thought  I 
could  perhaps  explain.  He  produced  several  French 
newspapers,  in  which  he  pointed  out  to  me  an  article 
headed  ‘Jasmin  a Londres;  ’ being  a translation  of  certain 
notices  of  himself,  which  had  appeared  in  a leading 


372 


NOTES. 


English  literai'y  journal.  He  had,  he  said,  been  informed 
of  the  honor  done  him  by  numerous  friends,  and  assured 
me  his  fame  had  been  much  spread  by  this  means;  and 
he  was  so  delighted  on  the  occasion,  that  he  had  resolved 
to  learn  English,  in  order  that  he  might  judge  of  the 
translations  from  his  works,  which,  he  had  been  told, 
were  well  done.  I enjoyed  his  surprise,  while  I informed 
him  that  1 knew  who  was  the  reviewer  and  translator; 
and  explained  the  reason  for  the  verses  giving  pleasure  in 
an  English  dress  to  be  the  superior  simplicity  of  the  Eng- 
lish language  over  modern  French,  for  which  he  has  a 
great  contempt,  as  unfitted  for  lyrical  composition.  He 
inquired  of  me  respecting  Burns,  to  whom  he  had  been 
likened;  and  begged  me  to  tell  him  something  of  Moore. 
The  delight  of  himself  and  his  wife  was  amusing,  at  hav- 
ing discovered  a secret  which  had  puzzled  them  so  long. 

“He  had  a thousand  things  to  tell  me;  in  particular, 
that  he  had  only  the  day  before  received  a letter  from  the 
Duchess  of  Orleans,  informing  him  that  she  had  ordered 
a medal  of  her  late  husband  to  be  struck,  the  first  of  which 
would  be  sent  to  him:  she  also  announced  to  him  the 
agreeable  news  of  the  king  having  granted  him  a pension 
of  a thousand  francs.  He  smiled  and  wept  by  turns,  as 
he  told  all  this;  and  declared,  much  as  he  was  elated  at 
the  possession  of  a sum  which  made  him  a rich  man  for 
life,  the  kindness  of  the  Duchess  gratified  him  even 
more. 

“ He  then  made  us  sit  down  while  he  read  us  two  new 
poems;  both  charming,  and  full  of  grace  and  ndivete  ; and 
one  very  affecting,  being  an  address  to  the  king,  alluding 
to  the  death  of  his  son.  As  he  read,  his  wife  stood  by, 
and  fearing  we  did  not  quite  comprehend  his  language, 
she  made  a remark  to  that  effect : to  which  he  answered 
impatiently,  ‘ Nonsense, — don’t  you  see  they  are  in  tears.’ 
This  was  unanswerable;  and  we  were  allowed  to  hear  the 
poem  to  the  end ; and  I certainly  never  listened  to  any 
thing  more  feelingly  and  energetically  delivered. 

“ We  had  much  conversation,  for  he  was  anxious  to 
detain  us,  and,  in  the  course  of  it,  he  told  me  that  he  had 
been  by  some  accused  of  vanity.  ‘ Oh,’  he  rejoined, 
‘ what  would  you  have ! I am  a child  of  nature,  and  can- 
not conceal  my  feelings ; the  only  difference  between  me 
and  a man  of  refinement  is,  that  he  knows  how  to  con- 
ceal his  vanity  and  exultation  at  success,  which  I lei 
every  body  see.’  ” — Bearn  and  the  Pyrenees^  I.  369,  et  seq. 

Page  356.  A Christmas  Carol. 

The  following  description  of  Christmas  in  Burgundy  is 
from  M.  Fertiault’s  (Joup  d'oeil  sur  les  Noels  en  Boar- 


NOTES. 


37S 


gogne^  prefixed  to  the  Paris  edition  of  Les  Noels  Bour- 
guignons  de  Bernard  de  la  Monnoye  ( Gui  Bardzai)^  1842. 

“ Every  year,  at  the  approach  of  Advent,  people  refresh 
their  memories,  clear  their  throats,  and  begin  preluding, 
in  the  long  evenings  by  the  fireside,  those  carols  whose 
invariable  and  eternal  theme  is  the  coming  of  the  Mes- 
siah. They  take  from  old  closets  pamphlets,  little  col- 
lections begrimed  with  dust  and  smoke,  to  which  the 
press,  and  sometimes  the  pen,  has  consigned  these  songs; 
and  as  soon  as  the  first  Sunday  of  Advent  sounds,  they 
gossip,  they  gad  about,  they  sit  together  by  the  fireside, 
sometimes  at  one  house,  sometimes  at  another,  taking 
turns  in  paying  for  the  chestnuts  and  w^hite  wine,  but 
singing  with  one  common  voice  the  grotesque  praises  of 
the  Little  Jesus.  There  are  very  few  villages  even,  which, 
during  all  the  evenings  of  Advent,  do  not  hear  some  of 
these  curious  canticles  shouted  in  their  streets,  to  the 
nasal  drone  of  bagpipes.  In  this  case  the  minstrel  comes 
as  a reinforcement  to  the  singers  at  the  fireside;  he  brings 
and  adds  his  dose  of  joy  (spontaneous  or  mercenary,  it 
matters  little  which)  to  the  joy  which  breathes  around 
the  hearth-stone ; and  when  the  voices  vibrate  and  re- 
sound, one  voice  more  is  always  welcome.  There,  it  is 
not  the  purity  of  the  notes  which  makes  the  concert,  but 
the  quantity, — non  qualitas,  sed  quantitas;  then,  (to  finish 
at  once  with  the  minstrel,)  when  the  Saviour  has  at  length 
been  born  in  the  manger,  and  the  beautiful  Christmas  Eve 
is  passed,  the  rustic  piper  makes  his  round  among  the 
houses,  where  every  one  compliments  and  thanks  him, 
and,  moreover,  gives  him  in  small  coin  the  price  of  the 
shrill  notes  with  which  he  has  enlivened  the  evening  en- 
tertainments. 

“ More  or  less,  until  Christmas  Eve,  all  goes  on  in  this 
way  among  our  devout  singers,  with  the  difference  of 
some  gallons  of  wine  or  some  hundreds  of  chestnuts. 
But  this  famous  eve  once  come,  the  scale  is  pitched  upon 
a higher  key,  the  closing  evening  must  be  a memorable 
one.  The  toilet  is  begun  at  nightfall;  then  comes  the 
hour  of  supper,  admonishing  divers  appetites ; and  groups, 
as  numerous  as  possible,  are  formed  to  take  together  this 
comfortable  evening  repast.  The  supper  finished,  a circle 
gathers  around  the  hearth,  which  is  arranged  and  set  in 
order  this  evening  after  a particular  fashion,  and  which  at 
a later  hour  of  the  night  is  to  become  the  object  of  special 
interest  to  the  children.  On  the  burning  brands  an  enor- 
mous log  has  been  placed.  This  log  assuredly  does  not 
change  its  nature,  but  it  changes  its  name  during  this 
evening:  it  is  called  the  Suche  (the  Yule-log).  ‘Look 


374 


NOTES. 


you,’  say  they  to  the  children,  ‘if  you  are  good  this  eve- 
ning, Noel’  (for  with  children  one  must  always  personify; 
‘ will  rain  down  sugar-plums  in  the  night.’  And  the  chil- 
dren sit  demurely,  keeping  as  quiet  as  their  turbulent 
little  natures  will  permit.  The  groups  of  older  persons, 
not  always  as  orderly  as  the  children,  seize  this  good 
opportunity  to  surrender  themselves  with  merry  hearts 
and  boisterous  voices  to  the  chanted  worship  of  the  mir- 
aculous Noel.  For  this  final  solemnity,  they  ha\^  kept 
the  most  powerful,  the  most  enthusiastic,  the  most  electri- 
fying carols.  Noel!  Noel!  Noel!  This  magic  word  re- 
sounds on  all  sides ; it  seasons  every  sauce,  it  is  served 
up  with  every  course.  Of  the  thousands  of  canticles 
which  are-  heard,on  this  famous  eve,  ninety-nine  in  a hun- 
dred begin  and  end  with  this  word ; which  is,  one  may 
say,  their  Alpha  and  Omega,  their  crown  and  footstool. 
This  last  evening,  the  merry-making  is  prolonged.  In- 
stead of  retiring  at  ten  or  eleven  o’clock,  as  is  generally 
done  on  all  the  preceding  evenings,  they  wait  for  the 
stroke  of  midnight:  this  word  sufficiently  proclaims  to 
what  ceremony  they  are  going  to  repair.  For  ten  min- 
utes or  a quarter  of  an  hour,  the  bells  have  been  calling 
the  faithful  with  a triple-bob-major;  and  each  one,  fur- 
nished with  a little  taper  streaked  with  various  colors, 
(the  Christmas  Candle,)  goes  through  the  crowded  streets, 
where  the  lanterns  are  dancing  like  Will-o’-the-Wisps,  at 
the  impatient  summons  of  the  multitudinous  chimes.  It 
is  the  Midnight  Mass.  Once  inside  the  church,  they  hear 
with  more  or  less  piety  the  Mass,  emblematic  of  the  com- 
ing of  the  Messiah.  Then  in  tumult  and  great  haste  they 
return  homeward,  always  in  numerous  groups ; they  salute 
the  Yule-log;  they  pay  homage  to  the  hearth;  they  sit 
down  at  table ; and,  amid  songs  which  reverberate  louder 
than  ever,  make  this  meal  of  after-Christmas,  so  long 
looked  for,  so  cherished,  so  joyous,  so  noisy,  and  which  it 
has  been  thought  fit  to  call,  we  hardly  know  why,  Eossig- 
non.  The  supper  eaten  at  nightfall  is  no  impediment,  as 
you  may  imagine,  to' the  appetite’s  returning;  above  all, 
if  the  going  to  and  from  church  has  made  the  devout 
eaters  feel  some  little  shafts  of  the  sharp  and  biting  north- 
wind.  Eossignon  then  goes  on  merrily, — sometimes  far 
into  the  morning  hours;  but,  nevertheless,  gradually 
throats  grow  hoarse,  stomachs  are  filled,  the  Yule-log 
burns  out,  and  at  last  the  hour  arrives  when  each  one,  as 
best  he  may,  regains  his  domicile  and  his  bed,  and  puts 
with  himself  between  the  sheets  the  material  for  a good 
sore-throat,  or  a good  indigestion,  for  the  morrow.  Pre- 
vious to  this,  care  has  been  taken  to  place  in  the  slippers. 


NOTES. 


375 


or  wooden  shoes,  of  the  children,  the  sugar-plums,  which 
shall  be  for  them,  on  their  waking,  the  welcome  fruits  of 
the  Christmas  log.” 

In  the  Glossary,  the  Suche,  or  Yule-log,  is  thus  de- 
fined : — 

“ This  is  a huge  log,  which  is  placed  on  the  fire  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  which  in  Burgundy  is  called,  on  this 
account,  lai  Suche  de  Noei,  Then  the  father  of  the  family, 
particularly  among  the  middle  classes,  sings  solemnly 
Christmas  carols  with  his  wife  and  children,  the  smallest 
of  whom  he  sends  into  the  corner  to  pray  that  the  Yule- 
log  may  bear  him  some  sugar-plums.  Meanwhile,  little 
parcels  of  them  are  placed  under  each  end  of  the  log, 
and  the  children  come  and  pick  them  up,  believing,  in 
good  faith,  that  the  great  log  has  borne  them.” 


END  OF  VOL  I. 


'-r- V' 


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